


The Thailand Job

by S_Faith



Series: Thai Job [2]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is a man to do when a job becomes more than just a job?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Man for the Job

**Author's Note:**

> A 'what if' scenario: While other threads remain, Mark and Bridget's history together does not. And if Bridget still went to Thailand for The Smooth Guide…

**Friday, 17 April**

"Sir, you have a visitor."

The PA's voice boomed out from the intercom on his desk, startling Mark Darcy from his thoughts and the brief he was in the middle of writing. He furrowed his brow, glancing to his diary. "I don't have any appointments this late in the day."

"I know," she said. "The gentleman's quite insistent, though."

Mark exhaled roughly. "Fine. Send him in."

He glanced down as he smoothed down then buttoned his jacket, rising from his chair to greet the visitor. When he glanced up again, he was wholly surprised. "Cleaver. Shall I call security, or will you be seeing yourself out unassisted?"

It was indeed his former Cambridge mate, Daniel Cleaver, the man who had caused his marriage to fall fatally apart after only two weeks by sleeping with the new Mrs Darcy. "Ceasefire, Darce," Cleaver said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "This is a matter of life and death."

"A bit melodramatic, even for you," Mark said.

"I am deadly serious," he said. "The fate of an innocent girl hangs in the balance."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Mark reached for the telephone.

"There is a girl—pardon, _woman_ —sitting in a Thai prison, unjustly accused of drug smuggling," Cleaver said in a voice so serious Mark froze in place. "I am _not_ being melodramatic. Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do is come here this morning. I know you'd just as soon punch me as look at me, but she shouldn't suffer for my pride and my past mistakes… and I know you're the best."

Hearing this stunned Mark further. Daniel Cleaver had always been a selfish man. He must have been very invested, or cared a great deal, to have come to Mark despite their past. Then he frowned. "Is this about trying to get this woman into bed?"

"Fuck's _sake_ , Darce, no," he said. He then added, "She was my girlfriend once. I fucked up and she dumped me." He held up a finger, pointing at Mark. "But this is _not_ about trying win her back, or trying to get her back into bed. I consider her a friend now, and I can't bear to think of her in prison for a decade or more. Or even worse."

Mark took in a deep breath to calm himself. Surely it wouldn't hurt to listen to what had happened. He sat down again, then picked up a pen. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Start from the beginning. Leave nothing out."

"I wasn't there," he said, "so what I can tell you is second-hand. But I'm sure the person who told this to me would be happy to speak to you directly. As I understand it, Tess—she's one of the line producers for the show—met someone with whom she had a little fling."

Mark interrupted. "You said 'the show'. Explain."

" _The Smooth Guide_. It's a travel show that I do. My co-presenter is Bridget, who is now in prison."

"Even though she's your ex."

"We worked through it, and are now friends, as I've said," Daniel said. "To return to the story. Tess met this Jed fellow, a dashing world traveller-type, very suave and sophisticated, very charming. I think you know where this is going."

"Enlighten me," Mark said, as he continued to write; he couldn't help think, _Sounds like you a bit, Cleaver_.

"He gave her a statue as a token," said Daniel, "and took her phone number in London. Said he would contact her once he, too, was back in Old Blighty. But Tess had no room in her bag for the statue—a god-awful snake thing that looked like an ashtray—and Bridget did, so she offered to take the statue home. You can guess what's in the snake. The drugs, which were found by the drug-sniffing dogs."

"And you witnessed that, too."

"Yes. Well, no. I mean, I saw them pull her out of the line. I assumed that since she's always late, that she had forgotten something at the check in. I didn't see the actual moment when the dogs alerted airport security. But then she didn't make the flight. We were supposed to sit together in first class."

Mark finished his final note, penning the final full stop with a firm dot. "I have to say," Mark said, "that this is unbelievable."

"In this day and age? It really is."

"You misunderstand," he said. "I mean it's _literally_ unbelievable. As in, I don't believe a word of this story."

"I'm not lying," Daniel said indignantly.

"I didn't say you were. It could easily be Tess who's lying to you. Maybe she and Bridget—" As he said the second name, he glanced to his notes to ensure he was saying the right one. "—were working together to do a little drug smuggling, and now Tess is trying desperately to distance herself. Maybe there's no Jed at all."

"I take the point," said Daniel. "But I did see them together."

"Tess and Bridget?"

"No," said Daniel. "Tess and Jed."

"Maybe he didn't give her the snake at all."

"He did."

"The point I'm trying to make," said Mark, setting the pen down, "is that in my experience, people caught attempting to smuggle drugs out of a country know exactly what they're doing. Maybe Tess was trying to make a little extra money. Maybe Bridget was."

"We don't pay _that_ poorly," Daniel quipped. "Darcy, I know Bridget pretty well. It's not in her nature to do what she's accused of having done. Maybe she was setup by Tess, but I doubt that. I do know that it is a setup. Probably by Jed. But it's impossible that she's a _willing_ drug mule."

Mark read back over his notes as he considered the story again. He doubted that Cleaver was doing this for altruistic reasons, despite the protestations. _She must've been really good in bed_ , he mused cynically. But something about this inclined him to take the case—if for no other reason, to prove his former friend wrong.

"All right," said Mark at last. "I'll do it." He glanced up, saw the look of relief. "I'd like to believe your story is the truth, that she's an innocent dupe in this whole thing, but knowing what I know historically about these cases… I can't assume anything."

"Investigate all you like," Daniel said. "You'll see it _is_ the truth." Daniel had always had amazing levels of bravado and self-confidence, but this was a new level, even for him.

"We shall see," Mark said diplomatically. "At the very least, I will try to get her back to Britain to serve out a sentence here."

"I've more confidence in you than that." Daniel smiled; it seemed genuine. "Thank you for taking this on."

Mark nodded curtly. 

"I know you don't work for free," Daniel said. "You'll bill me."

"Yes," he said. "If you have Tess's contact information, I'll take that."

"I'll put her in touch with you," he said. 

"Also," Mark continued, "if you could give me one more thing…"

"What's that?"

"All I know about this woman is that her name is Bridget. I'll need a bit more than that."

"Ah, yes. Bridget Jones," said Daniel. "I understand she originally hails from Northamptonshire. Isn't that where you're from?"

"It's a big place," said Mark, though he couldn't help feeling the name was familiar. "I'm sure I'll be in touch."

With that, Daniel nodded his head in acknowledgement, then left Mark to ponder where to begin. Speaking to Tess was at the top of his list; he hoped the conversation with Tess would spur additional information, and questions to ask. It was nearing the end of the day, though, so he packed up his attaché and prepared to leave for the evening.

As he left his office, he realised his PA, Rebecca, was still there. "Sorry about before," she said pre-emptively. "He was very insistent."

"Think nothing of it," Mark said. "I'm through for the day—hope you're going home soon, too."

She smiled, then nodded. "Just shutting things down."

"Good," he said. "See you on Monday. Have a good evening."

"You too," she said. "Try not to do any work tonight."

Mark chuckled. "I'll do my best."

………

As he made his way home, crawling through the traffic-laden streets of London, Mark found himself plotting his plan of attack on this latest case. He was familiar with a few other high profile cases of UK citizens who found themselves in trouble with the law in southeast Asia. It was probably a good thing that he didn't yet have Tess's contact information, because he might have been tempted to start making phone calls that evening. Doing so would risk the wrath of his faithful PA, he thought with a chuckle. 

Upon his arrival home, he could hear his telephone ringing. He managed to reach the phone apparently just in time. It was his mother, Elaine.

"Mark, I was just about to put the phone down," she said. "I'm glad I caught you. I've just heard the most terrible news."

His thoughts raced: his father? His aunt? Before he could even ask, she continued:

"Poor Pam! Her daughter's been jailed in Thailand!"

A strange sense of déjà vu came over him. "Remind me who Pam is, again?"

"Come now, Mark, you remember Pam," she said. "They used to visit when we lived in Buckinghamshire. Pam and Colin Jones, and their daughter Bridget, who would run around the lawn with no clothes on."

Bridget Jones. How small the world seemed at times. At his mother's prompt, he suddenly did remember a very specific birthday party, of a wee blonde girl gorging on chocolate cake and sneaking glugs from a bottle of wine… "You're going to be astonished at the coincidence," Mark said, "but I've just been retained to look into her case."

Elaine did not reply immediately, so long that Mark thought the call had dropped, but then she spoke. "I am, indeed, astonished. I'll have to let Pam know at once—she and Colin will be so happy to hear." After a pause, Elaine then asked, "Wait. Retained by whom?"

Mark didn't want to go into all of it—Bridget's ex, who also happened to be the man who slept with Mark's own wife after the wedding—so he explained only, "Her colleague, who happened to witness Bridget get pulled out of the boarding line by security when the drug-sniffing dogs alerted on her bag."

Elaine was silent again for a moment. "Oh dear," she said. "It sounds like you have your work cut out for you."

"I've only just begun," he said, "but I tend to agree with that assessment. I'll start in earnest tomorrow."

"I was going to suggest not starting tonight, rather to have some supper and a good night's sleep. Start fresh in the morning."

With that they said their goodbyes, and Mark put down the phone. As he prepared his supper, poured himself a glass of wine, his mind wandered back to his new case. He knew next to nothing about the woman for whom he'd agreed to fight; for all he knew, she was a party girl, a willing user of Class A narcotics, and could have been a willing participant. He had a sudden recollection from his youth, a blonde girl of four gleefully swigging out of a wine bottle at his birthday party. Could that have been the same girl that had grown into the woman sitting half a world away in a Thai prison for drug smuggling? He wondered exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

He'd made no evening plans aside from reading a bit before bed, and when he closed the book and switched off the light, he expected that he would fall immediately to sleep. However, this was not to be, as his mind anxiously turned over possibilities for this new case, all of which could not be narrowed down until he knew more about his new client.

 _If she worked in television_ , he reasoned, _maybe some of her work was online…_.

With this he threw back the bed sheets, sat up then turned the light on again. _Rebecca, forgive me_ , he thought with a smile, as he slipped down to his home office, to where his laptop resided still in his attaché. He pulled it out and fired it up, bringing up the web browser and starting in on searching. The news bureaus hadn't actually picked up on the Thailand story, and Mark didn't know if this was a help or a hindrance.

_Bridget Jones_

_Bridget Jones television_

_Bridget Jo_

He stopped, then turned to his notes from his meeting with Daniel, scanning for the name of the show they had been putting together. _Ah_ , he thought. _There it is_.

_Bridget Jones television Daniel Cleaver Smooth Guide_

This brought up a veritable treasure trove of video clips from a prior episode that had apparently aired fairly recently. It had taken place in Cologne; he clicked on the first video link based on the number of hits it had gotten.

"We're in Cologne, a _beautiful_ city," Daniel said, walking down a rustic-looking cobbled street beside a river; he was dressed as something akin to a devil, "that's about ready to put on one hell of party."

Next came a woman's voice, just as a blonde woman fell into step beside him. Bridget. She was dressed in what was clearly a costume of some variety, a harlequinesque diamond-patterned top and a flared skirt propped up by layers of light crinoline. "It's a party—a carnival, to be exact—for which they are renowned," she said. "We are on our way there now, to be launched at precisely eleven past eleven, today, the eleventh of November."

"Fond of their elevenses, clearly."

"Rather fishy smell, though," she said, though, wrinkling her nose.

"It's the Rhine," said Daniel, gesturing with his thumb towards the water. "What do you expect from a river?"

"Something a bit, oh, I don't know… _different_ for a city called Cologne."

The clip ended, and despite himself, Mark chuckled. Her comment was unexpected, clever in the guise of ingenuousness. 

Mark clicked on the next link down, which had apparently was a scene from a show they'd done in Paris. It was clearly night-time, in the centre of a narrow street lined with the soft glow of neon shop signs. He was in a pea coat and scarf, and she, in a flared tailored coat with a small pillbox-style hat perched on her head.

"Paris," said Daniel, "the city of light."

"The city of _love_ ," said Bridget; the way she said it sounded like a correction. "You think you know all there is to know about the world's most romantic city? I think you'll find you don't."

"Most romantic?" Daniel scoffed. "I beg to differ. Have you forgotten about that spicy weekend in Prague already?"

Bridget looked squarely at the camera with a smirk. "And _this_ is why we are no longer an item."

"I'm wounded," he said, clearly teasing her in return. "I even took my socks off."

"The height of romance," she said drolly. "But here, in Paris, you _will_ find the actual height of romance… and you can even keep on your socks."

With that the clip was over. Mark wasn't sure if he felt more enlightened, or more confused than ever. Their interaction was affectionate; their chemistry, undeniable; it was clear from just viewing these clips that they had in fact worked out whatever it was that had split them apart. _Either that_ , he thought, _or they're magnificent actors_.

And there was Bridget herself. It was obvious to him, from her features, particularly her eyes, that the young wine-swigging girl from his recollection had grown up into the woman in these clips. She had certainly blossomed attractively, though he admitted to himself that she was nothing like the woman Daniel usually went for; she was self-effacing and sharp-witted, blonde and buxom. _Case in point_ , Mark thought; _my ex-wife._

Amongst the clips of Bridget from _The Smooth Guide_ were outliers from another show, _Sit Up Britain_. He furrowed his brow and clicked on one of them, which had the topic of fox hunting.

He never expected to nearly double over with laughter. What was probably supposed to have been an anti-fox-hunting spot (given the well-known left-leaning bent of the show) became an aristocrat going on a pro-fox-hunting diatribe while she tried in vain to gain control of the horse upon which she had mounted. It spurred a memory of once seeing a segment of a female presenter going down a fireman's pole and flashing her pants to the camera; a few more clicks revealed to him that this, too, had been Bridget's doing.

He looked further through the search results to some items that had a lower number of hits; his suspicion that they were more serious segments (and not unintentionally hilarious) was correct. He watched one or two more or less straight interviews, very short in length, but it was quite clear to him what she thought about the subject of each respective interview: the man she thought was an idiot; the woman she clearly admired. For her coverage of the most recent Red Nose Day, her passion for the subject was abundant.

He sat back in his chair, pondering what he'd found. He certainly knew a little more about her, and what he learned he found he liked, but what he knew was still something of an enigma. What a Thai prison might do to a woman like her did not bear thinking. As he yawned he realised he should try to get to sleep, after all.

When he did drift to sleep his mind churned up all sorts of mixed images from everything he'd watched that night: horses and foxes and fire poles in a three ring circus, and Bridget in her Parisian coat and hat as the ring-mistress. She had perfect control of the chaos about her, and, much like she had with the man from the clip, was looking at Mark like he was an idiot. 

**Saturday, 18 April**

Mark awoke the next morning to the sound of his telephone ringing; specifically, his mobile. Blearily, he focused his eyes on the bedside, reaching to answer it.

"Mark Darcy," he said, then cleared his throat.

"Sorry to bother you at home," said a familiar voice. Daniel Cleaver. "At least I presume you're at home, but… anyway. I have that information for you. Tess's telephone number."

Mark sat up, looking for something to write on and with. He usually kept a pad and a pen on the nightstand but the pen had gone absent. He opened the drawer and found it. "Sorry," he said. "Go ahead."

After he jotted the number down, he thanked Cleaver, then asked, "How did you get this number?"

"Swiped a business card from your desk," he said. "You really ought to have a bowl of sweets, you know."

"Thank you for your feedback on the contents of my desk, Cleaver," he said curtly. "I'll be in contact with any progress."

Cleaver chuckled slightly. "Of _course_ you're working on Saturday."

Ordinarily he wouldn't have been working, but he felt like he had some catching up to do with regard to this case, especially as it seemed increasingly likely that he'd need to book a flight to Bangkok very soon. "Goodbye," he said, then put the phone down.

It was only then that he glanced at the time, and it surprised him that it was nearly half nine. He did not usually lie in so late, but then again, he didn't usually stay up quite so long watching video clips online. He swung his legs around to put his feet on the floor.

Time to get to work.

………

The call to Tess Brown was pleasant and brief; within thirty seconds of engaging her in conversation, he realised he really wanted to speak with her in person. He invited her to meet him for lunch at Pont de la Tour.

This suggestion left her apparently nonplussed. When she spoke he knew why. "Isn't it hard to get a table there on short notice?"

"Usually," he said, then realised it seemed a bit of a brag. "They are very good about fitting me in as the need arises."

"Oh," she said. "Well, yes, that'd be very kind. Thank you."

He arranged for half noon with her, called the restaurant to confirm, and then proceeded to make some coffee and have something light to eat to tide him over before a quick shower, then grooming and dressing. As he got himself ready, he wondered what she looked like, regretted not asking so he would know who to look for to meet. Then he laughed. It was a bit like a blind date, in a way.

He was a few minutes early; she arrived just a few minutes late. When she did arrive, the maître d' brought her directly over to the table. He rose again, greeted her, and introduced himself with an outstretched hand and smile.

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," he said, as they took their seats again. 

She smiled somewhat nervously; she was plain-featured with large brown eyes and horn-rimmed glasses. Her wavy brown hair came just to her shoulders. "It's a pleasure," she said. "I just want to do whatever I can to help. I feel awful for what's happened."

Once they had ordered lunch and drinks, he brought out a small pad on which to take notes. "So, if you don't mind starting from the beginning," he said, trailing off to invite her to begin speaking.

"Of course not," she said. "Well. For our flight to Thailand, I found myself seated across the aisle from a very handsome gent. He was very friendly and made every effort to strike up a conversation. Usually I'm content with sitting back and reading a book, but…" Her skin flooded with a blush. "…well, Mr Darcy, to be perfectly honest, I felt a bit flattered. Usually the pretty girls get all of the attention, and here was this world traveller switching seats to sit beside me, buying me cocktails, taking my contact info in Bangkok. He had some fantastic stories to tell about his travels. It was quite exhilarating."

As she continued to describe what was essentially a seduction, Mark jotted down his notes, reassessing his original thoughts from the story as Cleaver had told it. Tess seemed a very modest girl; he could easily see Jed targeting her because of her obvious insecurities. Maybe that made him cynical, but her demeanour, her lack of self-confidence, lent credence to Daniel's account. 

Everything else that she told him lined up with what Daniel had said. Lunch arrived just as she described Jed's gift of the snake bowl to her. She explained with another deep blush that he had given it to her the morning before her departure back to London, saying (without directly saying) that this had occurred after they had slept together, possibly for the first and last time.

 _He had her on the hook_ , thought Mark as he jotted down notes between having bites of his lunch. With every word she spoke, he believed the story more and more. Unless Daniel was in on it too, the stories would not have lined up nearly so well.

But he still had possibilities to eliminate.

"So tell me a little bit about your working relationship with the hosts of the show," he began. "Specifically, with Ms Jones."

He watched for a response, and it was about what he expected—warmth, fondness—though her suddenly erupting into tears was a surprise. "Sorry," she said, picking up her table napkin. Hastily, feeling embarrassed at having made her cry in public, he reached for his pocket square and offered it to her; she accepted it and daubed under her eyes. "I just… I like her so much. She's such a kind person, and… she's paying for my stupid mistake."

"So you thought of her as a friend?"

"Wouldn't say we're friends, really," she said, without any trace of hardness or bitterness. "We don't go out for drinks on the weekend or anything like that, but we're friendly. We have a great working relationship." 

"Okay, that's good to know," he said. "So how did the item in question come to be in her possession?"

"That hideous snake bowl? Oh, God, I wish I had never laid eyes on it, but it was such a quirky and unusual gift and souvenir…." Whether she meant a souvenir of Thailand or of her fling was not clear. "I had totally over-packed and was resigned to leaving it behind, but as I came out of my room with my suitcase in one hand, the bowl in the other, and probably a grim look on my face, I almost walked straight into Bridget. She asked me what was wrong." Tess laughed lightly. "Actually, she asked me jokingly who had died. That's when I told her about having to abandon the bowl. 'Oh no!' she said to me. 'You've _got_ to bring it home. Give it to me—I didn't get half as many souvenirs as I meant to, so I've got lots of room in my bag.'"

"Ah," he said. He would of course have to corroborate with Bridget herself, but he found it interesting that the idea was not Tess's but her own. He asked her then to confirm dates of arrival and departure, and also asked if she could provide the flight information. She said that she could do all of that by consulting the calendar on her phone.

"Thanks," he said. "Now about Jed himself. What can you tell me about him? What did he look like; how tall was he?" She was still looking down at her phone, so he added, "I'm sorry if this makes you feel uncomfortable…"

"Oh, no, that's not it," she said. "I was looking for… ah, here it is." She turned her phone around and displayed an image on her screen. Pictured was a tall, handsome man with a hat, standing on the beach, looking at a point in the distance over the water; his face was in three-quarters profile. "He didn't want me taking his picture—I suppose in hindsight it was because he's a criminal—so I snuck taking this. I just wanted something…" She blushed again. "Something nice to look at. Maybe some proof our little thing happened."

"I understand," he said. "Would you mind sending me a copy of that image? Not sure facial recognition would be able to read this, but it's certainly worth a shot." At her confused look, he added, "Facial recognition works best when the photo is a full portrait, and the head's not turned in any way."

"Ah," she said. 

He handed her a business card. "You can use the email address on there for the photo," he said. "If anything else comes to mind, feel free to contact me."

It seemed clear to him that the interview and lunch was over. He paid for the meal and they prepared to go. "It was very nice meeting you," Tess said. "I have a good feeling you'll get results for Bridget."

"That's very kind of you to say so," Mark said. "I hope you're right. I'll certainly do my very best."

His phone alerted an incoming email as he drove away from the restaurant; a glance told him it was the photo from Tess. Instead of heading back to his office, he swung towards Scotland Yard. He needed to pay an old friend a visit; he punched in the number to warn of his arrival.

"Gregg here," barked out the gruff voice.

"Gregg, it's Darcy," Mark said. "Wanted to make sure you had time for a little inquiry I need to make."

"Of course," he said. "If you don't mind bringing some coffee, though… I'm sick of the swill in here."

"Don't mind at all."

After a quick stop by for a couple of black, cold-brewed house coffees, he phoned ahead to let Detective Inspector Gregg know that he'd arrived. The silver-haired, dark eyed Gregg was there to meet him at the door, and together they walked up to his office.

"Like night and day," Gregg said, then took a long sip of the coffee. "So to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I've been retained to help an Englishwoman get out of prison in Thailand."

"Ah, yes, think I read something about that in the papers," Gregg said, taking the seat behind his desk. "How did you get involved?"

Mark considered his words briefly before explaining, "Daniel Cleaver came to me in a direct appeal."

A couple of pennies seemed to drop in Gregg's mind; he knew that Cleaver was the reason Mark was no longer a married man. "Cleaver. The same man who is the co-presenter on the show."

"One and the same."

"He must have been desperate, risking a punch in the face," he said, somewhat in jest. "Claiming innocence, as usual?" he asked; Mark knew instinctively he didn't mean Cleaver.

"She is," Mark said. "Just had lunch with the woman who said it was her fault it happened."

Gregg's brows shot up. "Oh, now this I've gotta hear."

So Mark gave him a much-simplified version of the story he'd heard so far. "When I asked Ms Brown to describe this Jed character for me, she did one better; she'd taken a photo." Mark drew out his mobile. "Unfortunately, she had to take it surreptitiously, since he disliked being photographed." He tapped around on the screen until the photo was up, then handed it to Gregg.

"Shame it's not straight-on," he said as he scrutinised it, moving his fingers to zoom in on the image. "But we might still get results." He looked up again. "I'm assuming that's what you need? To run this through the system?"

"Yes, it is," he said. "I don't know if the name Jed's a pseudonym, but my guess is that it is."

Gregg handed the mobile back to Mark. "Send it my way, I'll see what I can find," he said.

"Thanks," said Mark; before it slipped his mind, he dropped the photo into an email to Gregg and sent it off. "Much appreciated."

"Now that's out of the way," said Gregg, "how have you been?"

He thought about his stagnant personal life, the humiliation of his wife betraying him mere weeks after the wedding… about how lonely he was, about how his work had become his reason for waking in the morning. Lightning fast these thoughts raced through his head; only a matter of a second or two had actually passed before he replied, "Fine. And you?"

Gregg chuckled; Mark suspected his friend had seen right through him. "I'm 'fine' too," he said. "Exhausted most of the time. Deborah's a couple of weeks away from the popping out the little one—terrified to think how tiring having the actual child around will be."

Mark smiled. He and Gregg talked infrequently but he'd known that Gregg's wife was pregnant. The reminder of this news was bittersweet for Mark to hear; his own wedding and Gregg's wedding had taken place just a few weeks apart. This happy upcoming life event served to underscore how his own marriage had gone horribly wrong. "Time really flies," he said. "Seems just yesterday you were telling me your wife was expecting."

"Time does fly, doesn't it?" Gregg said, swirling his coffee as he sighed. "Will be sending the sprog off to uni before I know it." He took another long sip then set his empty coffee cup down. Mark took this as a cue to depart, and rose from the seat he had occupied.

"Have to be off," he said. "I look forward to hearing back from you about that photo."

"I'll get it processed right away," he said. "We'll send it to Interpol if necessary." After a pause, he added, "I've enjoyed her television shows. I'd hate to see her spend the rest of her life stuck in a Thai prison. Deborah finds her so funny that I don't feel too bad about fancying her a bit—or about Deb fancying Cleaver a bit."

Mark nodded thoughtfully. He didn't know her at all but he was getting a sense of her personality; granted, it was an on-screen personality, but Cleaver seemed to suggest the off-screen personality wasn't too far from it. Having his mother's endorsement for her cause helped even more. However, he couldn't yet rule out that Tess and Bridget had bought then planned to smuggle the drugs out for their own purposes—either to split for personal use, or reselling to (or sharing with) their colleagues. The entertainment industry was rife with substance abuse. He thought back, though, to his lunch with Tess Brown, and thought that she was the last person he might have thought of in conjuring up the image of a coke fiend. 

_Of course_ , he thought, _it's always foolish to judge by appearances alone…_

He realised that it was probably too late in the day, and on the weekend to boot, to make contact with the UK Embassy in Thailand; he could, however, make contact with acquaintances who had some position of power in the government.

When he got home he went straight for his office there, sat down, and started making calls. By the time his stomach reminded him it was long past dinner, he had reached two Cabinet ministers and had left messages with two different contacts at MI-6.

**Sunday, 19 April**

Sunday morning began with a cacophony of telephones bleating for attention, bringing him to instant wakefulness. On the mobile he saw that it was Daniel Cleaver. With nothing new to report he went for the landline, which turned out to be a smart choice. It was Gregg.

"I've got good news," he said without preamble, "and bad news. Bad news is, we've got nothing here at Metro on your Jed, or your picture. The good news, though, is that Interpol probably does."

"Probably?"

"You can try to contact them directly first tomorrow or Monday," he said. "I was unable to get hold of anyone last night or this morning."

"That's fine," he said. "I appreciate your effort. I'll pick it up in the morning."

"I did forward the picture by email and copied you, so you can get in touch with Cecil yourself," he said. "All right, I'm off. Time to learn how to breathe, or something."

Mark couldn't help chuckling. "We'll speak soon," he said. "Thanks again."

He put the handset down, then reached to check on his mobile; the email to Jacques Cecil had landed in his inbox, and a voice mail awaited him from Cleaver. As expected, he was looking for a status update.

"Don't want to be a pest or wear out my welcome—well, more so than I already have—and I know you've only just begun, but I wanted to know how you're getting on. Thanks."

He immediately rung Daniel back.

"You're right," Mark said. "I have only just begun. But I did meet with and talk to Tess and she's given me this Jed's photo. Metro Police has had a look at it but can't identify him. Interpol has it now, too, but I haven't talked to them yet."

There was an almost stunned silence. "Well," he said at last. "You're good."

"Thank you," he said in reflex. "When I know more, I'll pass it on."

"Will you speak to Interpol today?"

"I'm going to try," Mark said. "Once I've had coffee and breakfast."

"I can take a hint," said Daniel. After a beat, he said, "Thanks again."

He disconnected this call, too, then set down the mobile back onto the nightstand. On a morning like this he wished he could dive straight into his work and have someone bring coffee and pastry to him. He chastised himself, though, for being overly sentimental.

He resigned himself to eating breakfast over the morning newspaper, but the mobile rang again with a number on the display that he did not recognise. This didn't really surprise him—he got calls from unfamiliar numbers all the time—but Sunday morning was unusual even for him.

"Mark Darcy," he said in greeting.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Darcy," said a male voice. "I am Agent Jacques Cecil, from Interpol. I've been eager to reach you."

This too was a new one on Mark. He had worked with Interpol on more than one occasion—he reasoned that this had to do with his new case—but he had never had them initiate contact. "I'm glad to hear from you," Mark said. "I'd hoped to reach you today about the case I'm working on and the related photograph." 

"Roger Dwight," said Agent Cecil in an apparent non-sequitur. "We have been tracking him for some time but to have something more concrete on him… I had to contact you as soon as possible."

"So you're familiar with this individual," he said, more of a statement than a question.

"We are," he said. "But he's been like a spirit, impossible to nail down or track. He first came to our attention about five years ago, when we started getting requests for help with British, French, and German women in Thailand who had been taken into custody for drug smuggling. The name of the man that they gave the authorities was different, but his description and their overall stories were eerily similar. When a few took pictures, and a few images came in from hotel and airport CCTV, we realised they were connected because it was the same man. And that man was Roger Dwight."

Mark felt a bit blown away by this info dump. "And is that another pseudonym?"

"That's the name he used when he first entered the system in Surrey on a drugs charge involving marijuana," said Cecil. "I guess he decided to refine his technique, make someone else do the dirty work, and leave as little evidence as possible. Do you know? He actually burnt off his fingerprints. I bet he was quite annoyed to learn of the existence of DNA evidence." At this last comment, Cecil's voice betrayed a hint of amusement.

"So what is that I can do for you?" Mark asked. "It seems you have far more information than I do."

"We were hoping to get information on where exactly Mr Dwight is right now," he said. "If your client knows."

It felt strange to call Bridget Jones his client when they had not even consulted together. "I haven't yet talked to the woman in the Thai prison, Ms Jones," he said. "I've talked with the woman who was actually given the drugs by Dwight, Tess Brown."

Cecil did not speak right away. "They are not the same person?" he asked. "The newspapers nor DI Gregg mentioned there were two women involved."

Mark gave Cecil a briefer version of the story that he'd given to Gregg.

"Well, this is an interesting twist," Cecil said. "I wonder if this means—" He stopped suddenly, as if he had already said too much.

"Whatever you're thinking, say it," Mark said with authority.

"Well, his standard operating procedure is to have an associate at the airport to report in with whether or not the mule—and therefore, the drugs—made it through both departures and arrivals. Your Miss Brown did indeed make it through. Will he make contact, I wonder?"

A cold chill washed over Mark. "Do you think Ms Brown is in danger?"

"Doubtful," he said. "He's going to bide his time before making contact to avert suspicion."

Mark did not feel particularly reassured. "I'll be making arrangements as soon as possible to visit Ms Jones face to face, to verify the story and see if there's anything she knows that Ms Brown doesn't."

"Excellent strategy," said Cecil. "I'll be in touch."

After they disconnected the call, Mark phoned Rebecca, apologising profusely for working on the weekend before she could admonish him. "Getting to Thailand just got a whole lot more urgent," he explained. "There have been some developments, and arrangements can't wait until tomorrow."

To her credit, she did not ask for details, only asked, "How soon do you want to depart?"

"The sooner, the better," he said. 

His next call was to Tess Brown, giving her DI Gregg's contact information… and why. She seemed to take the notion of Jed being out and about quite well. "I'll be leaving for Thailand," Mark said, "so if by some chance he does call you…"

"Right," she said resignedly.

He hoped that Rebecca would be able to find something as soon as that evening, so he went to put together his standard travel kit: a few suits, shirts, ties, a shaving kit, and something to read, this time, an account of the sinking of the _Lusitania_. His mobile buzzed. He checked and found a message from Rebecca with the details of his flight leaving in the early evening.

He paused to text back: _Thank you, as always._

She replied, _All part of the service. Have a good flight, and good luck._


	2. Touching Down in Bangkok

### Monday, 20 April

Mark did not end up reading on the flight at all, but rather, he slept; when he landed it was just after lunchtime, local time. In the car on the way to his hotel, he checked his messages, had none; he was not sure whether he was disappointed or relieved. He checked in, took a quick shower to make himself presentable, then first went to the British Embassy as a courtesy, to advise of his plan to visit his client at the prison. 

He was escorted through nearly immediately to the Assistant to the Consul, a short, unassuming man called Charles Palmer-Thompson. He smiled unsurely, reached out to shake Mark's hand in greeting.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Palmer-Thompson said with a broad grin. "Pleasure indeed. Hope your flight went well?"

"As well as can be expected," he said. "I came directly here after a short stop at my hotel, thank you. I just wanted to let you know that I was here in Thailand, working on Ms Jones' behalf."

"Have you been to see her yet?"

"No, as I've said," Mark said, wondering if he hadn't been paying attention or was maybe just a little bit daft. "I'll be going there next." 

"Splendid, splendid," he said. "I've been a couple of times. She seems to be holding up well."

"Glad to hear it. Well. I'm staying at the Mandarin Oriental." He handed Palmer-Thompson one of his business cards. "In case you need to reach me."

"Thank you very much," he said. 

With that Mark departed, and was back in the car within a few minutes, on his way to Klong Prem Prison. The cityscape quickly thinned out to something that looked a lot more suburban, and before too long they were arriving at the prison gates. He presented his credentials, and as a result was led to the women's section of the prison. Conditions were about as grim as he had always heard; the walls and floors were filthy, the smell in the air was unpleasant bordering on putrid, and the halls echoed with the noise of restless, indistinct voices.

When it seemed that he was about to be dropped off at a meeting room designed for client/lawyer consultation, he said authoritatively, "Take me to the cell. I need to see the conditions under which she is being kept."

The corrections officer, a short but stout and fierce-looking woman with a name plate he could not read, looked at him with confusion; did no one ask to see the cell conditions? "You wait here, I bring Ms Jones."

"No," he said. "You will take me to the holding cell to which she is assigned."

She did not try to offer further opposition, merely nodded sharply and carried on down the hallway. The sound of the voices got louder as he followed the officer into the heart of the prison complex.

They went through one final door; the sound got louder still, but not in the way he expected. The women were all in this giant cell together. The scene that greeted him was perplexing and bizarre. Rather than looking downtrodden and defeated, the women were all standing, happily moving—dancing?—and singing together. One woman stood higher than the rest, up on a table; pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, with white tube in hand (into which she was singing—in fact, they all had one) and wearing what appeared to be a sarong skirt and either a bikini top or a bra over her shirt.

He knew in an instant that she must be his client.

Within a second or two of their entrance, the women realised they were no longer alone, and they stopped singing to turn to look at the newcomers.

"Bee-git Jones," said the officer. "You have visitor."

"Me?" said the blonde, tucking the white tube into the waistband of her skirt, climbing down to the chair, then to the floor. "I don't know this man."

"I'm your counsel," Mark said. "I've been retained for your defence."

She looked stunned. "Oh," she managed, then offered him a smile. "What a relief."

Mark looked around the cell; all things considered, it wasn't so bad. The women had mats to sleep on, the floor was reasonably clean, more so than the hallway, and there was a semi-private area for the women to relieve themselves. He turned to the officer. "You can bring us to the meeting room now," he said.

"Cell is okay?"

"It appears to be acceptable," he said noncommittally.

"Practically five star, A-plus-plus, would use again," Bridget Jones said drolly.

"Okay," said the officer with another curt nod, then strode off, turned around, and then said, "You come this way."

Mark held his hand out for his client, inviting her to follow first as they were led back to the meeting room they had originally passed. The door closed behind them as the corrections officer left, leaving him and his client alone in silence. He decided to take the reins, since, given her performance in the cell there, her inappropriate joke about the cell, she did not seem to grasp the gravity of her situation. He set down his attaché and opened it.

"Why don't you have a seat there," he said, looking studiously into his papers for the pad and pen, "and you can tell me exactly what happened that led you to your incarceration."

She didn't say anything until he looked to her; he concentrated on not allowing his eyes to slide down to the brassiere, to the generous shape that it enhanced almost beyond his ability to ignore it. "And _besides_ being my defence counsellor, you are…?"

He looked back to the paper; he was embarrassed more than he would admit for failing to introduce himself, but it was not a common situation. Usually he knew his clients… and they knew him. "Mark Darcy," he said stoically, returning his gaze in her direction. "Good to meet you at last. Now, if you could make yourself comfortable and tell me from the beginning what happened…"

"The beginning? Beginning of what?" she asked, her face screwed up in confusion. "For me, it started with being keel-hauled out of the line boarding my plane."

He released a terse breath. Was she being deliberately obtuse? "The beginning of the trip will suffice. Your association with Tess Brown, and her association with Jed."

She narrowed her eyes. "You don't already know this?"

"I do," he said. "But I need to hear it from you."

She cleared her throat and sat up straight in the chair, then began to speak. Her story was not too different from Tess's—they were acquaintances, though on good, friendly terms, and she liked Tess a lot; how she offered to stuff the snake bowl into a case of her own that had the room; how surprised she'd been to have said bag alerted on by the drug-sniffing dogs. They had obviously not had an opportunity to get their stories straight, so this boded well for both—unless they were in this together.

"What was your first thought when you saw there were drugs in the bowl?"

"Honestly?" she said. 

"I'd expect nothing less."

"I thought 'Fucking Jed.' I _knew_ it had to be his doing."

"You never thought it could have been Tess?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No way. Not in a million years. He'd tried to set her up as a pigeon."

He continued to make notes. "And how do I know you and Tess haven't arranged this story in advance, to add legitimacy to your claim that you didn't know there were drugs?"

He looked up to see her mouth agape. "I don't think I want you as my lawyer anymore," she said.

His brows rose before he could control his features. "Pardon?"

"You think I did it!" she said, her cheeks high with colour.

"I did not say I thought you did it," he said placidly. "I am merely trying to determine where the prosecution might attack your story."

"This is ridiculous," she said, slouching back against the chair. "I can't prove I don't know something. There isn't anything to fingerprint—the drugs were loose inside the stupid snake, and anyone could say that if there are no fingerprints or DNA of ours on the inside of the snake means that I, or we, just wore gloves."

"True," he said, thinking of fingerprint-free Jed. 

"So how on earth do you plan on getting me out of here, then?" she asked. "Why did the Embassy bother to send you if you have no confidence in me or my story?" Under her breath, she added, "Leave it to Charlie not to send someone decent…"

"You're labouring under a misapprehension, Ms Jones," he said, masking the offence he felt. "Several, actually."

"Please," she said, folding her arms across her chest, underscoring that his eyes had been drawn there again. He looked away. "Enlighten me."

"For starters, I am not here at the Embassy's behest. I was retained by Daniel Cleaver on your behalf." 

She blinked rapidly at hearing this. "Daniel?"

"Secondly, my visit to you is not the first action I've taken to try to free you."

"Well, obviously," she said, the scepticism returning to her voice. "You talked to Tess."

"And Tess gave me a photo of Jed, which I have brought to the authorities, and they have identified who he really is." She looked surprised. He drew out the photo and showed it to her. Without his even asking, she nodded, confirming this identity. To finish, he said, "I hope this is enough to win your confidence."

She smiled, just a little. "A bit."

"Baby steps," he said. "I do believe your story, and I'm doing what I can," he began, "but this is not an extended holiday. Are you ready to take your situation seriously if the worst-case scenario comes to be?"

"What makes you think I _don't_ take it seriously?" she asked, visibly stung.

He looked pointedly at her attire. "The musical number upon my arrival."

"I'm doing what I can to keep my spirits up, keep up the spirits of the other women," she said. "None better than Madonna. It's not pretty in here. What about you?"

"Pardon?" he asked again.

"How do I know _you_ are taking this seriously? What if you're just one of Daniel's hapless, drifter friends who needs a bit of pocket change? Someone he pals around with at the strip club?"

"Do you recall the Kafir Aghani case from last year?"

"Yes," she asked tentatively. "I was supposed to interview him but—"

"He wasn't giving interviews," he finished for her. "You see, I have a strict, no-interview policy with my clients." The truth of what he meant sank in; he could see it on her face. "Perhaps," he began coolly, "you should have been this inquisitive before you decided to accept stashing a stranger's snake in your luggage."

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again, turning her head away, her ponytail bobbing as she did. She must have at least had something to brush her hair, he thought in passing. "Fair point," she said at last, then looked to him again. "I'm not just being bone-idle in here, you know."

"Aside from singing into paper tubes?" he said, meaning for it to be a bit of a joke.

"They're tampons," she corrected unflinchingly. "And no. I've been talking with Charlie."

It dawned on him who she meant, before and now, by 'Charlie': Charles Palmer-Thompson. "From the consulate? What have you been talking with him about?"

"Oh, you met him, then?" she asked brightly, then sighed. "Not the brightest bulb, is he? His dad's in the Foreign Office… I just had to ask Charlie if his dad got him his post. You know."

"You didn't really," Mark murmured, flinching inside. 

"Check in with Charlie. You might be able to get help from his quarters," she said, then winked. "Talking to you is not the first action _I've_ taken."

His pride would not allow him to say so, but he was actually impressed that she had made some effort, that she hadn't just sat back, resigned to her fate. Not that it was going to come of anything—he only hoped she hadn't just sunk her own ship by insulting Charles Palmer-Thompson.

He'd accomplished what he'd needed to do that day, and he still had to contact London to share his progress. Time to draw the consultation to a close. "Well, Ms Jones," he said, packing the papers back into the attaché, then rising from the chair. "I must be going now."

"Oh. How long are you in Thailand?" she asked quietly.

"At least three or four days more," he said. 

"Will you be back again soon?" she asked in an anxious voice, getting to her feet.

"Yes, of course," he said reassuringly, then held out his hand to offer a handshake. She accepted; it was warm and firm. In that moment he had a glimpse of how afraid and vulnerable she really was, despite her best efforts to appear otherwise. "I'm glad to have gotten the chance to talk to you," he said. "Is there anything I might bring for you?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "Soap? Vitamin supplements? Some toothbrushes?" she asked, as if she didn't expect any of these things. "At least a few more chocolate bars. I'll pay you back, when I can."

He offered a smiled. "I'll see what I can do. Until tomorrow, then." He then turned to rap on the door for the guard's attention. 

"You stay here," the guard said to Mark, then said to Bridget Jones, "Come with me."

After presumably taking her back to the cell, the guard returned to escort him to the prison's main gate. When he got back to the car, he said to the driver, "Take me to the nearest chemist's."

………

It wasn't until he was having dinner a few hours later in the comfort and silence of his hotel room that the request for toothbrushes, plural, had little to do with feeling like she would remain in prison for a decade or more, especially when his mobile went off.

"You're a difficult man to track down, son," came the unfamiliar voice on the other end, one that, oddly enough, reminded him of his own father.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Mark said neutrally. "With whom am I speaking?"

"Reginald Palmer-Thompson," he said with a sense of pride. "Foreign Office. My son came to me with concern over a UK citizen being detained in a Thai prison. Mentioned to me in passing that she's got a lawyer now, but the boy didn't give me anything but your name."

"I gave him my card," said Mark.

The older man chuckled. "Wouldn't put it past that boy to have lost your card, honestly. No matter—I managed to find you. Your girl Rebecca was very helpful."

"Always glad to hear," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, it's what I can do for you that prompts me to call," he said. "Just wanted to let you know that you have full support from these quarters. We'll do anything we can do to get Ms Jones freed."

Mark was left feeling a bit gobsmacked that Ms Jones' efforts from within the prison had actually borne fruit. "That is very generous, sir," Mark said. "Thank you."

"Thank Ms Jones for lighting a fire under Charlie's backside, if you'll pardon the slang," he said. "I'm glad to see him show a little initiative for once, to be honest."

Again, Mark felt like he didn't know what to say. How well she had been able to read Charlie, how spot on she had been… and how ridiculous he felt for not having immediately caught it, too. 

"Maybe," continued the older man, "this will finally give him a bit of a career boost."

Mark grinned. "I very much appreciate him bringing this to you, and you taking this as seriously as you are. Interpol have already identified whom we think is responsible for the quantity of drugs found in Ms Jones' luggage. Mr Roger Dwight, aka Jed."

"Brilliant," he said. "Keep me apprised. As soon as we have more info on this Jed fellow, I'll put pressure on the Thai government through official channels."

"I will certainly do that," Mark said.

With that they concluded the call. Mark continued to eat his dinner, and was so distracted by his thoughts that he hardly noticed the fact that his tandoori chicken had gone a bit tepid. She wasn't freed yet, but he had dealt with similar legal situations before and hadn't expect things to come together so smoothly or so quickly.

Due to the travel and the busyness of the day, Mark decided to retire early for the evening, eschewing even a bit of reading before bed. He had just drifted off when his mobile began to go off, rather insistently. When he answered, his voice must have betrayed his drowsy state, because Jacques Cecil said apologetically, "My apologies. Did I miscalculate the time difference?"

"It's quite all right," Mark said, blinking to bring himself to full wakefulness, pushing back the duvet. "Did something happen?"

"Something very big, as a matter of fact," Cecil said, almost proudly. "Many developments since we last spoke. Or at least, since you last spoke to Gregg."

He sat up, reached for the pad of paper and pen he'd left next to the bed. "Bring me up to date."

The news Cecil had to impart caused the pen to slip from his hand.

"As we thought might happen," Cecil said, "Ms Brown had a call from Mr Dwight. He was indeed under the impression that she had made it to London with the drugs intact, and wanted to come over to her flat, ostensibly to see her, but in actuality probably to get the bowl back. She in turn rang up DI Gregg, who had people watching the building in time for the meeting. They took him into custody without incident."

Mark blew air through his teeth, impressed. This was very huge. A best-case scenario, and he said so. "I suppose he claims no knowledge?"

"Of course," Cecil said. "He admits that he was in Thailand, that he knew and had had an affair with Ms Brown, and that he was just returned and wanted to see her again. He admits to nothing further. Gregg says his face didn't betray anything when we told him about Ms Jones being caught with the drugs."

Mark's mind whirled with possibilities for where this would go next. Unless they could get authorisation from a superintendent, they could only hold him for 24 hours without charging him. Time was of the essence. "You mentioned other cases," Mark said. "These other women could surely identify him. This could help them to appeal their sentences, and bolster the current case."

"Yes," he said.

"The Foreign Office," said Mark suddenly. "I spoke with Reginald Palmer-Thompson, whose full support we have. He can put pressure on the Thai authorities to speak to the women."

"And perhaps Gregg can elicit a confession."

"I would not count on that," Cecil said. "Gregg might be an expert interrogator, but Mr Dwight is a very cool character. We shall have to have evidence with which we can confront him."

"I'll contact Mr Palmer-Thompson," Mark said. "Meanwhile, there's another witness to Mr Dwight and Ms Brown being together, right there in London: Daniel Cleaver. I'll send you and Gregg his contact info."

With this new development, Mark was wide awake again. He sent off Cleaver's contact info and made the call to Reginald Palmer-Thompson as promised, telling him too to reach out to the people he'd attempted to contact before his departure. As he concluded the call, his mobile rang again. This time it was Cleaver.

"I suppose my getting a call by the Metro Police means there has been progress on the case," he said drolly. 

"You might say that," said Mark, then filled him in on all of the details, concluding with the apprehension of 'Jed'.

Mark heard a low whistle. "Worth every penny," Cleaver murmured. He then asked, eagerness and concern in his voice, "I presume you saw her today? How is she doing?"

"Physically, she seems to be fine."

"And otherwise?"

"If it's any indication as to the condition of her spirits," Mark said, "when I met her, she was rousing the women in the cell into a round of 'Like a Virgin'."

After what Mark could only assume was a stunned silence, Cleaver began to laugh. "That is wholly reassuring," he said at last between breaths. "You'll have her home in time for tea tomorrow, at this rate."

"I think that's a bit optimistic," Mark said. "DI Gregg wants a statement from you, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes. I'm going there next." After a beat, he said, "You're working miracles, Darce."

"I can't claim all the credit," Mark said modestly. "Ms Jones has done a lot of advocacy on her own behalf from within prison. She's the one who got the attention of the Foreign Office."

"You two make a good team," Cleaver quipped. "On that note, cheers. Off to bed you go."

As he put down the phone, he chuckled quietly to himself. Of course Cleaver had known Mark was dressed and ready for bed. He supposed he had not changed so much over the years, and Cleaver had once been one of his best mates.

### Tuesday, 21 April

Mark was by nature an early riser, and being on the other side of the continent did not change that. Up, dressed, and at breakfast with the morning edition of the English language newspaper before the party crowd in London had even gone to bed. He rang up for the car again, intent for the prison, to brief Bridget Jones with the progress they'd achieved on her behalf.

When he arrived, immediately recognised and escorted in with little questioning, he found that they had already brought her to the meeting room they'd met in the day before, and she was visibly excited, running up to him and bouncing in place. Had she already heard the news he was going to impart?

"I've had a brainwave," she said before he had a chance to say a word; she was still dressed in the skirt and the top from the day before, but she was apparently either without the brassiere, or it was under the shirt; her clothes were slightly grimier, worse for wear. 

He reasoned that his news was much bigger than hers, but he decided to humour her. "What is it?" he asked.

"The snake fertility bowl," she said. "It had to come from somewhere, right? Whoever sells those things has to be able to say that it wasn't me who bought the hideous thing."

The thought of trying to track it down amidst the shops and street vendors in Bangkok—or elsewhere in the country, or indeed the whole of southeast Asia—seemed impossible, but perhaps there was a way, so he filed it away on his mental to-do list. "Excellent idea," he said.

She beamed proudly. "What about you? Any news?"

"As a matter of fact… yes," he said. He set his attaché down on the table as he had the day before. "There's been a lot of movement since I saw you yesterday."

He saw her fight to suppress a laugh. "Sorry, go ahead," she said. "What's happened?"

He gave her the same short version that he had given to Cleaver, up to and including taking Roger Dwight into custody. "You see, he didn't realise the switch had happened, that you had taken the bowl, and thought Tess Brown had made it through all right. He arranged to meet her at her flat, and that's when they picked him up."

She was clearly impressed. "Wow. Brilliant," she said. "So when do I get to leave?"

"Unfortunately, it's not as straightforward as that," he said. "The consensus is that 'Jed' is not likely to offer a confession, not without indisputable evidence of his guilt. He's smart, hasn't given anything away."

"Oh," she said, sounding deflated.

"All hope is not lost," he said. "We're building a pretty strong circumstantial case. The eyewitness account from Tess, Daniel Cleaver's testimony, the testimony of the other women which we'll be collecting shortly—"

"Other women?"

"He's done this before," Mark said. 

She looked stunned, and managed another "Oh."

He remembered the things he had purchased at her request, and said, hoping it might take her mind off of things. "I was able to get what you requested."

"What? I mean, pardon?" she said.

He opened the attaché, and drew out the vitamin tablets, the toothbrushes and tubes of toothpastes, the bars of soap and an assortment of chocolate bars. She brought her hands up to cover her gaping mouth, then looked up to meet his gaze. "You got them," she said. "You bloody got them."

He drew his brows together. "You asked for them."

She smiled, her eyes welling with tears. "I didn't think you'd bring them so soon. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Oh," he said. "And this."

He drew out a paperback book he'd found at the chemist's, _Gone Girl_. There had been a film recently; he had also recalled the book being very popular with women.

"That's for you," he said. "To help pass the time."

She offered a small smile. "You guessed the rest of this wasn't all for me."

"You seemed a bit more optimistic about your situation than to need several toothbrushes for just yourself," he said. "Hence the multiple soaps and large bottle of vitamins. They're chewable."

Her eyes scanned over the array of things he'd brought. "Thank you," she said. "I'm really, really touched."

"I'm glad to have helped." And he was touched, too; she was grateful to have gotten so little. "I should be going soon, so I can touch base with London, pass on your idea about the bowl."

"Ah. I was going to, you know…" She gestured towards the chocolate. "Have one. Mind staying a little longer so I can eat it in peace?"

"Of course I don't mind."

She ripped open the packaging and took a modest bite from the end. As she chewed with obvious enjoyment, he could just make out that she said, "Oh my God." After she swallowed, she said, somewhat abashedly, "Sorry. It's just that after days of rice, rice, rice… I'd almost forgotten how decadent a good chocolate can taste." She took another bite, then another, crumpling up the packaging and setting it down.

"You know, I meant to ask. How is my mum taking this? My dad?"

"I haven't spoken to either of your parents directly," Mark said, "but my mother tells me that your mother is beside herself with worry."

Her confusion was clear, and belatedly he realised she was not aware of their familial connections. He explained, "My mother, Elaine, is friends with your mother."

"Oh, really?"

"Apparently, we have known each other since childhood," Mark went on. "You used to run around on our lawn—" He stopped himself before he could add 'with no clothes on'.

"Was there a paddling pool?" she asked in disbelief. Before he could answer she continued. "I think I remember that. Wow. That was you?"

"Must have been, unless you went to a lot of paddling pool parties," he said. "Your mum is much relieved that I've taken the case." He didn't know this for certain, but the way that his own mother had reacted, he had to think Pam Jones would be pleased, too, and he wanted to put Bridget's mind at ease.

Instead, he saw a tear roll down her cheek. She lifted her hand to wipe it away and in the process got a smudge of chocolate on her face. Without a second thought he retrieved his pocket square and offered it to her. "Thanks," she said quietly, daubing under her eyes, and at the chocolate smudge. "When I first got here, Charlie told me that I was looking at ten years here, minimum. He said it in a very matter-of-fact way, not an oogie-boogey scare tactic; it was just the way it was going not be, full stop. So hearing that there's a real chance I might not have to spend my child-bearing years in this—in _here_ …" She sniffed. "It's nice to feel real hope."

"We're building what I think is a strong case," he said. "I'm doing what I can. Metro Police are. Interpol are. And the Foreign Office, too." Her head snapped up as she looked at him. He nodded. "I spoke with Charlie's father yesterday."

At this, she smiled, then reached out to take his hand with both of hers; he could feel the tear-damp cloth still in her hand. "Thank you," she said fervently. "If you can manage to pull this off, I will be forever grateful."

"You're welcome," he said; he placed his free hand on one of hers in a reassuring manner. Yesterday's first meeting had been full of bluster and bravado on her part; he could not help asking now again, "So how are you really doing? Be honest. I know life in prison here is not easy."

She didn't answer right away, as if considering her words. "It's hard," she said. "Sleeping on the floor. I'm constantly hungry. It's cold in the evenings, and I never feel clean." She laughed mirthlessly. "I'm pretty sure I've got fleas or something." She looked up to him. "Sorry. Maybe a bit too much honesty."

"It's all right," he said. "You're not being mistreated? Abused in any way?" he asked; a blonde woman (and an attractive one, at that) tended to stand out, tended to attract unwanted attention from the guards, in situations like this.

She shook her head.

"You can tell me if they have," he said gently.

"I haven't been," she said. "The girls have been protective of me."

"Good," he said; only then he became aware that she still grasped his hand. "You know, given the situation here, you're handling it extremely well. You should be very proud of yourself."

She nodded a little, her eyes glossing over a little. "I know it's been less than a week, but it feels like an eternity," she said, her voice quietening again, almost cracking. "Holding myself together has, at times, taken every ounce of strength I possess."

Suddenly, the opening line from one of his father's favourite poems popped into his head, and he quoted it to her as a sort of support: "'If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you…'"

She drew her hands back. "Lose their heads?" she asked, panicked. "Do they behead for this sort of thing, here?"

He chuckled; he could not help himself. "Sorry—no," Mark said, then he explained that it was the Rudyard Kipling poem, _If_.

"Oh," she said, looking relieved. "I should have guessed. I should have recognised it, actually. How embarrassing. My uni mentors would be appalled."

A loud rapping at the door signalled the end of the visit. She quickly got to her feet, her hand outstretched. "I would keep and launder this for you," she said, "but under the circumstances…. I only dried my eyes with it, for what it's worth." Into his hand she dropped the pocket square. In turn, he dropped it and the candy wrapper into the attaché and then closed it, picking it up as he rose to his feet. 

"I'll be back again tomorrow," he said. "I'll work on seeing if it's possible to track down where the bowl came from." Even if he wasn't exactly sure what the bowl's creator could add, aside from corroborating that the bowl had been in Jed's possession.

She nodded, though. "Thanks again for all of this stuff," she said, carrying it in a fold of her voluminous wrap skirt. "It'll be like Christmas morning out there." And then she smiled. "Good luck out there."

"Good luck in here," he said. "Goodbye."

As soon as he was back in the car, he wasted no time jumping on his mobile. "Cecil, it's Darcy here," he said. He glanced to his watch; it was still rather early in Lyon, and he wondered if he hadn't awakened the man. "Ms Jones had a thought about the bowl itself."

"Mm?" he asked.

"It might be a long shot, but: tracking down where the bowl was purchased," Mark said. "It may be that the seller can back up the story that Dwight bought the bowl. I can't imagine an item like that is mass-produced."

"Good plan," Cecil said.

"I'll be contacting the local authorities about this, as well," Mark said. "I may be able to see the bowl in person."

Cecil was silent for a beat. When he spoke, he seemed suddenly wide-awake. "You know," he said, "all of the women so far have been nabbed from Bangkok, and presumably processed through the same police precinct. We have virtually no photographs of the evidence, and the ones we have gotten have been of poor quality. You may be able to request seeing evidence from other cases, as well as the bowl. Perhaps they will allow you to view them all, or even photograph them yourself." 

This suggestion of documenting the evidence for all of the related cases spurred a nascent train of thought, one that Mark could not quite define yet. He felt that he might really be on to something here… all thanks to Bridget. "It sounds like the Thai officials haven't been paying much attention to the actual vehicles of drug transport, because they had their drug mules dead to rights," he said. "More's the pity."

"I'll ring up Gregg when the hour's decent in London," Cecil quipped, "and meanwhile, I'll forward the other cases' info for your reference."

The driver was very familiar with the city, and had driven enough diplomats and officials to know where the Central Intelligence Bureau was that Mark intended to visit. They were very polite and deferential, though there was a flurry of conversation surrounding his request to see evidence from so many disparate cases. In the end, persistence paid off; he insisted that he needed to see all of the evidence to build the case to free his client. 

"We have good reason to believe we have the man who is really responsible already in custody," he said. "I presume you would rather identify the real perpetrator, rather than keep an innocent woman imprisoned?"

In the end they allowed it. The officer in charge of Bridget's case, Inspector Sakda, took Mark to the evidence room and told him to wait by the table before walking off, presumably to get the evidence for Mark's inspection.

The first one to come was the snake bowl, which was not quite what he expected, and larger than he thought. Rather than being a bowl shaped like a coiled snake as he had expected, it was an ordinary-looking hand-thrown bowl, earthen brown in colour, with a segmented, idealised ceramic snake wrapped around a portion of it and as if making to bite the edge of it. It was a very awkward shape for a bowl to have, and would have been extremely awkward to fit into a smaller suitcase. He reached to open the clear evidence bag, but suddenly stopped himself. "Have you got gloves?" he asked Sakda, then, at the confused expression, mimed pulling a pair on. This brought instant illumination to the officer's face, who left and returned momentarily with a pair of bright purple nitrile ones.

After Mark slipped the gloves on—slightly too small, but they would work for now—and turned the largest piece of the bowl over in his hand; the bowl, the head of the snake, and most of the body of the snake. The other portion had broken off in getting to the drugs. In doing so, Mark was instantly curious. In order to get to the drugs, airport security had had to break open the snake on the bowl. He remembered what Bridget had said about it, that "the drugs were loose inside the stupid snake"… so how did the drugs get _into_ the snake?

The light hanging over the table was fairly bright, and Mark held it up for close scrutiny. He was glad that he did, because only under oblique light could he see a series of Thai characters contained within an almost cartouche-like outline. He drew his brows together. He set the bowl on the table, assembling the large and smaller bowl pieces roughly in the same places they'd be if the bowl was intact, then drew out his mobile and took pictures from several angles. He used his wallet next to it for scale. He then turned the large piece over again, focusing in as close on that mark as he could and taking a few more pictures.

"Mista Darcy," came the crisp voice. Mark looked up. It was Sakda again, bearing another evidence bag.

"One moment," he said. He noticed on his camera screen that one of the segments on the tail seemed to be slightly askew. He wiggled the segment a little and it came off in his fingers. Mystery solved; this revealed the empty cavity within. "How much has this been analysed?" he asked. He poked the edge that had just released the segment. "This looks like glue."

"The basic," the inspector said. "No fingerprint. No DNA to find. X-ray show nothing."

_Not even the removable segment?_ Mark thought. He found that hard to believe, thought it likelier that they had not done extensive testing at all, since they thought they had the perpetrator locked up. "Hm," he muttered to himself. Carefully he gathered the pieces back up and slipped them into its evidence bag, moved it aside, and then opened the new bag.

This was apparently a wall hanging of some kind, a frame of bats, their wings overlapping, with a mirror in the centre. They were highly stylised, more like the bats he'd seen in Chinese art, and less like a creepy Halloween decoration. The bodies of the bats formed a circle, a portion of which had been broken away in order to access the drugs that had been inside.

He turned it over, held it to the light, thinking, perhaps even hoping, that he would find something that would stand out to him. He found it almost immediately. In the middle of the lowest bat, opposite of where there was an indentation to hang on the wall, was the exact same cartouche as he'd seen on the snake bowl. He even pulled up the photo he'd just taken to compare.

"I'll be damned."

"Damned?" asked Sakda.

Mark shook his head. "Just an expression," he said. With his finger he probed the edge of the broken segment, and found that it too was loose. Another removable segment, which would have been invisible except for the break. And the ceramic was the exact shade of dark brown as the snake bowl.

Not a coincidence.

"Remind me," said Mark. "What do the bats symbolise?"

"Bats are good for long life," said Sakda.

As he did with the previous exhibit, he laid the mirror down in order to take pictures. "Wait, I get for you," said the officer, then left, only to return moments later with a ruled evidence marker for scale.

Mark offered a smile. "Thank you."

Mark looked at three other pieces of evidence before he decided he'd seen all he needed to see. There was no doubt in Mark's mind that all of the objects connected to these cases came from the same craftsperson. While they were not fine artworks, they were clearly hand made with care, and with a very obvious purpose: smuggling.

"Inspector Sakda," Mark began, "there's writing on the back or bottom of all of these things." He pointed, shifting the frog statue he held upside down.

"Writing? No writing."

"No, there is. Do you see it?" Mark said, holding his thumbnail against the edge of the cartouche shape.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Sakda said. "I see now."

"Can you read it?" Mark asked. "I mean, can you make it out?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sakda said.

Mark felt frustrated, though he supposed he should have been more specific in what he wanted from the man. "So what does it say?" 

"It just say 'Yakshini Sa Wat'," he said, "which mean blessing, good fortune of Yakshini."

Mark waited a beat before asking the next logical question he had: "Can you explain what 'Yakshini' means?"

"Oh yeah, sorry," said Sakda, looking a bit abashed. "Yaksha and Yakshini, guardians of nature treasure, those buried in ground. Yakshini have feminine spirit with all best feminine quality."

Mark was not sure he understood what Sakda was trying to say, so asked for clarification, "Females that guard treasures?" 

"Earth thing," he said, looking a bit frustrated at not having a better mastery of English for the visitor, "like, uh, tree roots and natural treasure. Things hidden from sight. Underground. Spirit like… like nymph, you know?"

"Female nature spirits that guard hidden treasure," Mark murmured; Sakda nodded. Yakshini Sa Wat was a clever name, Mark granted, under which to manufacture objects in which women were unwittingly made to guard hidden treasure of a different kind. "It sounds like this might be the name of a company making these items," Mark continued. "You see that these were all made by the same hand."

"Yeah, I see, yeah," said Sakda. "I get on it, right now."

"Very good," said Mark. "Thank you."

Mark put the final piece of evidence back into its bag. He decided it was time to leave the police precinct, in order to send the photos off to Gregg and Cecil. Before he left, though, he made sure to thank each of them profusely for their help.

He wasted no time getting on his mobile. He forwarded the photos to both contacts, in an email explaining what it was they were seeing. Within a few minutes of sending that message, Mark's mobile lit up with an incoming call.

It was Cecil, who seemed at a loss for words. "If only we had seen these sooner," he said. "If anyone else had taken the time to compare the actual evidence in person."

"To be fair," he said, "the police probably see quite a few smuggling cases. Surely they are not all connected to a vast web of conspiracy."

"Should have put more pressure on—well," Cecil said, interrupting himself, "that's neither here nor there. I'll facilitate Metro working with the CIB to find who's making these items."

"Fantastic," Mark said.

No sooner did he put down the call that the mobile rang again; he wasn't even back to the hotel yet. It was, unsurprisingly, DI Gregg.

"Bloody hell, Darcy, why aren't you a detective?" he said by way of greeting. "Great work. Good thing you're not, eh? I'd be out a job."

"You're going to get a call momentarily from Cecil," Mark said, "to coordinate working with the Thai authorities to find the person or persons who made the things the drugs were smuggled in."

"Good. I'm eager to find them—they must be complicit. You don't make knick-knacks like that _not_ intending to smuggle something inside them."

"My thoughts exactly."

"It'll help strengthen the case, and let me keep that bastard locked up."

Mark decided he would call Reginald Palmer-Thompson when it was a little later in London; now, he decided on an early lunch at the hotel restaurant. While he waited for his entrée, he rang up to Charlie Palmer-Thompson to keep him apprised, too.

Charlie's response to the update was very… well, British. "Jolly good," he said with something akin to team pride. "I'll bring Bridget an extra sandwich during my visit today to celebrate."

"This afternoon?"

"Yes, yes," he said, though it sounded more like 'yars'. "Do you think she might like a Jaffa cake? I could try to get one of those, too."

"Thing is, Charlie—may I call you Charlie?" asked Mark, not waiting for an answer; "I haven't actually told Ms Jones any of this yet. It's all happening so quickly. Do you think you can put off your visit until later today, so that I might speak to her?"

"Yes, yes," he said again. "I understand completely. You are her lawyer, after all."

"Terrific," Mark said. "I'll ring you up when I've concluded my visit." After a pause, he added, "I think she might very much like the Jaffa cake, if you can manage it."

………

Bridget Jones did not say a word, not for many minutes after he stopped speaking. She stared at him in a sort of disbelief. "Wow," she said at last. And then she smiled, clapping her hands together. "Fucking _wow_. And it was you who thought to look at all of them? Rocky smart, you are."

"Ah, but you must take the credit, here, Ms Jones," he said. "I would not have been put on the path but for your suggestion."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "Thank you," she said at last. Then she furrowed her brows. "Wait, I thought Charlie was going to visit this afternoon."

"I told him to come later, so that I could talk to you first about what's happened today."

"Oh," she said. 

"Something wrong?"

"No, I was just… looking forward to the sandwich, that's all." She smiled again. "Not that I'm not grateful for this amazing news. And for the chocolate and stuff this morning."

He laughed lightly. "It's all right. I understand. He'll be here later." 

He suspected that she might long for conversation about home, but he didn't know quite what to say. However, this difficulty was overcome by her speaking up.

"So what did Daniel have to say about the bowl stuff?"

"I haven't spoken to him today," Mark said. "It was still pretty early in London when this all came about."

"I would have thought you'd've, I don't know, sent him a text message."

He probably should have, but his duty had been to the case and to her, whom he was representing. "I'll speak to Mr Cleaver later," Mark said.

She stared at him. "Mr Cleaver?"

He was equally confused. "Yes," he said. "Daniel Cleaver."

"I know who you mean," she said, "but do you normally refer to your friends so formally?"

"We're… not friends," he said at last. The truth was too complicated to go into at that moment.

"Really?" she said, less of a question than a statement of mild surprise. "I would have expected him to pull in a friend for this."

"What makes you think that?" Mark asked, genuinely curious.

"Well… someone he trusts," she amended. "I mean, when we were filming in Paris I developed a terrible toothache, and he pulled all sorts of strings with his uni connections to find me a dentist practically in the middle of the night on the weekend."

"He might have chosen a friend to try to get you out of this prison," Mark said straightforwardly, "but instead he chose the best in the field."

She smiled and laughed a little. "You're so modest."

"Oh, I don't say that to boast," he said. "It's more of a statement of fact. My record on this sort of thing is—"

"It's okay," she said, still chuckling, cutting him off. "I'm touched he went out of his comfort zone for my sake."

_You have no idea_ , Mark thought. "We were mates at Cambridge," Mark offered.

"Oh, well, I guess that explains it a bit more," she said. She screwed up her face in confusion again. "So why aren't you mates now?"

Again he wondered about her, about how she and Daniel had ever been a couple, how they had managed to remain friends when Daniel's usual MO was to leave a trail of burning beds behind him, figuratively speaking. "It's a rather long story."

She pointedly looked around them, as if a reminder that she had all the time in the world. "I don't have anywhere else I need to be," she said wryly.

"All right," he said. "It goes a bit against every professional instinct, but all right. On one condition."

She was intrigued. "What?"

"A little _quid pro quo_ ," he said.

"Lawyer talk," she interjected.

"I want to know about you and Daniel."

"That seems a bit personal," she bristled.

"The story I have to share is very personal, too."

She leaned back against the table. "Touché," she said. "You first?"

"Sure."

So he told her how he and Daniel had met at Cambridge, how they had been the unlikeliest of friends—the Cambridge Odd Couple—until fairly recently.

"So what happened?" she asked, breathless with anticipation.

"I got married," he said. She saw her eyes flicker quickly to his left hand. "He slept with my new wife a couple of weeks after our wedding."

She stared at him in disbelief, then brought her hand up to her forehead. "That fuckwit," she said, though there was a hint of affection in her voice. "Was he drunk at the time?"

"Pardon?"

"I just can't picture him doing something like that to a friend whilst sober," she said. But then her features darkened a little. "Well, I shouldn't really say that. After all, I doubt he was drunk the entire time he cheated on me with Lara."

He suspected that was part of her story, and it turned out he was right.

"Technically," she continued, "it was the other way 'round, though I didn't know it at the time. I was the other woman, while he was already involved long distance with her. We were working together in publishing. He was, um, my boss, technically."

"Ah," Mark said. "Long distance?"

"They worked together in the New York office. And then he came back."

Mark wondered if this was when he, too, was in New York.

She continued, "So after we split up I left to go into television. He did the same—coincidence? I'm not sure. But we had some long talks while we went out for a fag, and we made up, as friends. I mean, not overnight, but it happened. And now we're pretty close—and we're better off as friends, anyway. And that's the end of that."

He realised she said the last bit because he had not said anything in response. Primarily he could think of only one thing: how impressed he was with her capacity for forgiveness. The betrayal of an intimate relationship had to rank worse than what Daniel had done to him.

"Ah," he said. He did not know quite what else to say.

"So if you're no longer friends with Daniel," she asked, "why did you take accept the case?"

"Because I do know him well," Mark said, "and for him to be so concerned for your situation… it struck a chord. It's not like him to be so concerned for anyone but himself. I thought there might really be a right to wrong."

"Very noble," she said. "No, I'm not being sarcastic. It really is noble, to set aside an old feud for someone you don't even know. Well. You didn't know that you knew me at that time."

"Correct," he said. After a moment of quiet, he said again, "Quid pro quo."

"You know, it's creepy to hear that, and I just figured out why," she said. "Hannibal Lecter said that. _Silence of the Lambs_." 

He smiled. "Thanks for that," he said warmly. "I think this helps, you know. Your case. I feel like I have a better insight into it. Into you."

She grinned. "Better insight into you too, Mr Darcy," she said with an unmistakable warmness of her own. "You're not anything like I thought you were when you first turned up."

He wondered about the first impression he had left with her, but suspected it had not been good—and then he wondered why it should matter. After all, he was there to do a job, not make friends. "Well, now that that's settled, I should be going," he said. "There's still work to do and there may be updates I need to know about. I'll let Charlie know he can come by now."

"Maybe he'll bring me dessert, too," she said, chuckling. Her features softened. "Thank you for everything you're doing."

He sharply nodded once in acknowledgement. "Enjoy your sandwich," he said. "Until tomorrow."

When he stepped out onto the walk, he took in a deep breath of the warm, humid air. He thought it felt like it might rain, but it was not unpleasant, and in fact a light rain spattered the windows of the car as they headed back to the Mandarin Oriental.

Once returned, he went up to his suite to set up camp for the rest of the day. It was late enough in the afternoon in Thailand now that calling London wasn't going to be waking up the person on the other end. He first rang up Daniel, for whom he worked, to bring him fully up to speed on the day's developments.

Daniel was thrilled to hear about the progress. "I'll still bet on tea time by end of week," he said. "Fantastic news. Beyond pleased."

"There may be a lot more tape to cut through before she can actually walk free," he said.

"Cautiously optimistic. I get it," said Daniel. "I'll put the champagne on to chill, nonetheless." After a moment's pause, he added, "We'll all toast together."

Mark knew what he was really doing, and he actually appreciated the effort: it was an olive branch of sorts. "When the time comes, I'll be there," Mark said.

"Great," he said. "Great. And Bridget? How is she?"

"Very well. Spirits high. I mean, more so than before," Mark said. "She requested some items, which I brought her this morning. Vitamins. Toothbrush. Chocolate."

Daniel burst out into a laugh. "The necessities—of course she'd want chocolate. Thank you for that. I'm sure it helped a lot."

Mark recalled the relish with which she'd eaten the candy. "I think that it did. A reminder of her real life. What waits for her back in London."

"And with bated breath, no less," Daniel said. "Hope the next time we speak it's to tell me your flight info coming into Heathrow."

"You're very optimistic," Mark said; he couldn't help but smile himself. "I'll be in touch with further updates." 

Next, Mark decided to bring another party up to date, one with whom he had not spoken since his arrival: his mother, who could then proceed to bring the hometown contingent, including the Joneses, up to date. Wisely, his mother asked him if she should take notes.

"Might not be a bad idea," Mark said.

By the time he got through what had happened that day—identifying a possible manufacturer of the items that were used in transport, the multi-agency cooperation between the Foreign Office, London Metro, Interpol, and the Central Investigation Bureau there in Thailand—he could hear her set the pen down. "My goodness, Mark," he said in that understated way she had mastered, "you _have_ been very busy."

"I feel like I'm spinning plates, coordinating efforts," he said, "and not actually doing a whole lot."

"That's nonsense," she said. "How many people looked at that bowl and no one noticed that stamp? It's okay to accept the credit for your brilliant work." After a pause, she went on. "You've told me all about the case, Mark. What about the _girl_? What about Bridget? Is she all right?"

"She's doing very well," he said. "I'm actually very impressed by what she's done, what she's come up with, to help herself while she's in prison. She initiated the contact that ultimately led to the Foreign Office's involvement. She's the one that came up with the idea to look more closely at the bowl and ultimately at the rest of the evidence to the cases we think are connected to Roger Dwight." His mind's eye flashed back to that initial meeting, to her flippant comment that he had mistakenly assumed was lack of understanding the seriousness of her situation, and he chuckled. "She's kept what I assume is her normal sense of humour, and keeping the spirits of the other women high. When I asked what she wanted me to bring for her, she asked for things for more than just herself."

"Oh, Mark," said his mother quietly. "Such glowing praise. You do seem quite taken with her."

"She's my client, Mother," he said sharply. "That is not appropriate."

"I always wondered if the two of you might not make an interesting match," Elaine continued. "Polar opposites, but that is usually what makes it interesting."

"Mother," he said, equally crisply. 

"No need for that tone with me, Mark," she said. "I'm just looking out for your happiness."

"While I appreciate it," Mark said, "it's not the time or the place."

"She won't be your client, won't be in prison there forever."

"I have to go, Mother," he said. "Have a good evening."

"You too, son," she said. "Just think about it."

He put down the phone with a sigh. Top-level, world-class human rights lawyer and champion of justice… forever being match-made. He then chuckled softly to himself. She was, after all, a mother, and he, her son. This, he realised, would never change.

Over his dinner he pondered his history with women, pondered in depth, in a way he had really hadn't done before. He could not, in all honesty, remember he last time he had had a serious relationship with a woman. There was his marriage, sure, but that hadn't been very serious at all, certainly not as serious as it should have been. More of an arrangement of convenience than anything else. As much as he wanted to believe Daniel had been what had broken everything, the truth was probably closer to this: everything was broken anyway, held together in a most tenuous fashion, and Daniel had only served to break the surface tension and send it exploding apart. 

He thought about it, and thought about it some more, over another glass of red wine. Wholly appropriate for an epiphany of this nature. Thoughts whirled in his head: restoring a friendship with Daniel, contemplating a future with the last person in the world with whom he should be contemplating one… and an unbidden image of his ex-wife being in the place of Bridget Jones—in a cell under less than sterile conditions, bearing up under the brunt of a drug smuggling accusation—and he could not suppress a laugh. 

### Friday, 24 April

It came to the point where Mark could do little more directly but keep in contact with Cecil in Lyon, Gregg in London, Sakda down at CIB, and the elder Palmer-Thompson in the Foreign Office. Roger Dwight was still being held, which told Mark that they had gotten the appropriate authorisation from higher up to do so—whether it was pressure from Cabinet or the Foreign Office, he didn't know, and it hardly mattered. They had him where they wanted him.

He continued to pay visits to Bridget, to convey information to her; he could tell that she was becoming a bit frustrated to not have new news. "I know so much happened that first day or so," she had said to him, "and that kind of thing can't sustain itself… I guess I got a bit spoilt." 

"Things aren't totally stagnated," Mark had said. "I'm told that the authorities are very close to finding Yakshini Sa Wat, whomever this person or persons may be."

He probably could have even gone back to London, but he was feeling confident that he would be able to bring her home before he'd been there a week. Once they had apprehended and talked to the purveyors of the smuggling vessels, they would be able to extradite Jed to Thailand. They could not have any further reason to hold Bridget. 

And in the meantime, someone had to bring her chocolate bars. _Charlie could certainly not be counted on in that respect_ , he thought with some amusement.

As Mark arrived to the prison and headed for the meeting room, he realised she was already in there with Charlie. _Good old Charlie_ , thought Mark wryly.

"Hi!" Bridget said brightly, rising from her seat at the table. "Lucky me. My two current favourite men." She pointed to the table. "Just having my lunch. Charlie was kind enough to bring another cream cheese sandwich, and some crisps."

Charlie looked exceedingly proud of himself. Mark fought the urge to one-up the man and present a handful of chocolate bars. "You're looking well," he said instead. 

"Thanks," she said, offering a half-hearted smile. "Any news?"

"Nothing yet, today," he said. "I'm hopeful that I'll hear something soon from Sakda and his people. They finally got a very good lead on the location. Such a big city, so much ground to cover. So many artisans in the bazaars."

She nodded; still, she smiled, even if it seemed a bit propped up. "I know they're doing everything they can," she said. 

Mark noticed that she had not had anymore of the sandwich, at about the same time Charlie noticed. Charlie asked, quite concerned, "Everything okay with the food there?"

"Oh, yes, it's just fine," she said. "Quite delicious. I just got distracted with the two of you here. Thank you again." Mark saw Charlie's demeanour change, saw him turn bright red, puff up and look pleased. She sat and took another bite, then followed it with a couple of crisps. Mark realised that Charlie had quite a crush on his client. Mark also worried that perhaps he himself was acting as inappropriately, and looked as pathetic, as Charlie. Were these feelings surfacing only because they were each helping to save her in their respective ways, like some sort of side-effect of a saviour complex?

"Are you okay?"

He felt her hand on his forearm; he looked down where she sat, saw her look of concern. "Yes, sorry, I'm fine. Thank you."

"I ought to go," Charlie said. "I'm sure you have much to discuss on the case, eh? Take care, Bridget. Enjoy your lunch."

After Charlie had gone, Mark opened the attaché case. Her face lit up when she spied the chocolate bar wrapper. "You must never tell Charlie I said so," she said, "but I would give up all of the cream cheese sandwiches in the world for a few more of those."

He smirked to himself. "It's no trouble at all." He looked to her. "As I mentioned, I don't actually have anything new to impart yet."

"It's okay," she said. "I don't mind the company. The girls in the cell, though, I think they're a little bit jealous of me. But they appreciate the chocolate, too."

"I'm glad to bring them," he said. "Glad to bring a little brightness to your day." He didn't know if it was his imagination, but her eyes did seem to shine a little bit more, her smile did seem a little more natural, closer to the surface.

"When I get home, do you know what I want to do?" she asked. He wondered if it were a trick question, one he didn't know quite how to answer—go for a manicure? Shopping? Five star dinner?—but she saved him from having to answer by continuing on. "I am going to buy the largest container of ice cream I can find, and spend the entire day in a bubble bath."

He was surprised that something so simple was the first thing she thought of doing once home; he was also taken aback by the mental image that popped up in his head, the thought of her naked surrounded by the mounds of suds. In fact, he was so taken aback that he could not find any words. He was not a lecherous man by any means, least of all with respect to his clients, so the response surprised him immensely.

"Lucky you," she continued, precisely when he felt the opposite of lucky, "you've probably got a spa in your suite."

His first and immediate response was to offer her the one in his suite as soon as she was free to use it, but he thought better of it. As it was, he would have a hard time using it alone. "With any luck," he said, "you'll be back home within the week, free to eat from a tub of ice cream as large as your head."

"If I'm out within a week, it'll have nothing to do with luck," she said. Softly, kindly, she added, "I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

Only much later, after he was in the car on his way back to his hotel and thinking about what she'd said, did his spirit sink with a realisation: any affection she might appear to be showing to him might have nothing to do with him, and everything to do with gratitude for saving her from a life of imprisonment.

_Well_ , he told himself again, _you're here to do a job, not to make friends. Certainly not to find a girlfriend, for God's sake._


	3. The Working of Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably goes without saying, but: typos and other issues are totally on me.

**Saturday, 25 April**

Over his usual early morning breakfast, Mark caught up on correspondence that had come in while he had slept, from later in the day in the UK; he planned to head to the prison after a shower and shave, but found that plan changing slightly when he found his mobile alerting with a message for him.

"Darcy." It was Reginald Palmer-Thompson. "So much has happened—sorry to have kept you out of the loop, but everything happened so quickly. Please, ring me up when you can." After a pause, he added, "Don't worry, it's good news."

Mark wasted no time at all returning the call. 

"I'll cut the story short," Palmer-Thompson said in a jovial tone. "Yakshini Sa Wat—we found them at last. Was rather surprised to find they are a thirty-one year old woman and her mother. Dwight evidently charmed her into making items with modifications to hide narcotics with some bogus story… they claimed not to know their purpose, apparently, and with no prior criminal record, and no desire to spend the rest of their days in prison for Dwight's sake, they are cooperating fully."

Mark was stunned, so much so that he couldn't speak at first. "That's… fantastic," he said, sounding understated to even his own ears. "What does it mean for Ms Jones?"

"They are charging Mr Dwight in London—actually, probably have done, by now," he said. "I believe the CIB are waiting to process Ms Jones' release as soon as they are assured Mr Dwight will be extradited back to Thailand. CIB are also deeply committed, due to our, shall we say, _persuasive argument_ , to re-examine the cases of the other women connected to him."

"Incredible news," Mark added.

"Not sure it'll have made the papers that morning, there. But I think it'll garner huge attention when it does, and the authorities will want to be very public about fixing the problem."

Mark washed over in relief. The end was in sight. 

He would contact everyone as soon as he could do so respectfully given the time difference in France and London. For now he would continue preparing for the day as he'd planned, and go to the prison to let her know that things were moving in a positive direction; he would not say anything more about release until she was cleared to leave. It did not do to raise hopes unnecessarily.

However, it would seem that the developments that had happened overnight had preceded him to the prison; the atmosphere there in the cell, to which the prison guards led him directly, was positively festive. It dawned on him that they were leading him there because they thought he was there to take her away. If not for his sense of procedure and propriety, he might have walked out of there with her.

Bridget seemed a bit more cautious than the other women, who kept asking her if she was leaving now to be free.

"Not yet," Mark said gently. "How are you?"

"All right," she said. "What exactly is going on? I am not sure I believe anything I'm hearing."

He explained to her just as Reginald had done for him; she listened intently, and as he wound down to the end he could see tears glossing her eyes, but she seemingly refused to cry.

"I wasn't even going to say anything more than the bowl-makers had been found until I had definite word you were to be released," he said. "I didn't want to disappoint you if it didn't happen."

She nodded her understanding, not saying a word.

Mark turned to the guards again. "Pardon me," he said. "Show us please to the meeting room. We have more to discuss in private."

With a curt nod and a brisk step they were led out of the cell and the now-familiar meeting room, and once they were alone in the room, she sank down in the chair.

"I feel like I've been here forever," she said, her voice quiet. "That my life in London was nothing but a dream."

"It's been less than a fortnight," Mark said. "And I'm fairly certain that it wasn't a dream. I've seen the _Smooth Guide_ footage."

She chuckled.

"It was quite enjoyable," he added.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I would never do that," he said. "And I have something else to make you feel better."

She glanced in his direction, pleased, yet sceptical at the same time. "Chocolate candy?"

"Better, I think. Daniel Cleaver mentioned this was a particular favourite." He popped the clasps on his attaché, and drew out a small white paper sack. Her eyes widened. 

"That isn't what I think it is, is it?" she asked, then opened the bag and saw it was indeed a chocolate croissant. She looked up and into his eyes. "Oh my gosh. How did you find this in Thailand?"

"I have connections," he said with a smirk.

She pulled it and shoved the end unceremoniously into her mouth for a big bite. "Oh my stars," she murmured with a full mouth. After chewing and swallowing, she offered a smile, a chocolate smudge on her nose. "The chocolate bars were good, but this is heaven. Thank you."

"Happy to do it," he said. "Look, I'm going to go and make some calls on your behalf, and I hope to be back later."

"Okay," she said. "You'll let me finish this first, though."

"Of course," he said.

Mark's mobile rang whilst en route to the hotel. To his surprise, it was Inspector Sakda.

"Mistah Darcy," he said. "Your client, we are dropping the charge but she cannot leave country yet. You go get from prison."

"Oh," he said; he was taken completely by surprise. Mostly, where would she go until they could return to England? "Well. Wonderful. I will be there as soon as I can."

He proceeded to the hotel as scheduled, ringing up Cecil as he did, unfortunately waking the man from slumber. "No, it's fine," Cecil said groggily. "I'll make some calls. Take care of what you need to from there."

Upon arriving at the hotel he spoke with the manager, who was able to arrange moving him to a double suite with a connecting door between them. He didn't want her to feel alone after her ordeal, wanted her to feel free to approach him should she need to.

With the hotel's assistance, he scheduled a medical professional to come and perform a physical to ensure she was truly well. He also arranged for some other items that he thought she might like to ensure her comfort that evening: a light but tasty meal, a bottle of wine, and chocolate ice cream for dessert. He also suspected she would use the full tub to relax, too. 

Then he went back to the car, and back to the prison. This time, when they led him back to the cell, his sudden reappearance and the smile on his face told her why he had returned before he even had a chance to say so. She scrambled up from her seat on the floor, her expression full of shock and disbelief.

"Really?" she said.

He nodded. "CIB called to tell me they've dropped all charges. The guards confirm it. You're free to go."

She slapped both hands over her gaping mouth, then did something that took him aback: she ran to him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she gushed, then, "thank you, thank you, a million times thank you."

He felt his face flush red with the heat of embarrassment; the other women and the guards looked at him with amusement. Regardless of his embarrassment, he was very pleased, and he hugged her briefly in return. "You are quite welcome," he said. "I'm pleased to have done it."

"Oh, Daniel!" she said, drawing away. "Oh, I can't _wait_ to see him again. I'm going to plant a big smacker on his face at the soonest."

He reined in his features, disappointment flooding over him. Were they really only just friends, or more, after all? "I'm sure he will be very pleased to get the news," he said neutrally. "We can ring him up when we're out of here."

"Oh, yes, good. Well. Can we go then?"

"We'll just process official paperwork and yes, we can go."

After they retrieved her personal items—a handbag that included cosmetics, a bottle of water, and a very dead mobile phone; the personal carry-on bag of clothing that she had brought to Thailand, the one that had contained the fateful snake bowl; and a suitcase that contained some of the wardrobe she had worn while filming—they walked out onto the pavement. She squinted into the sun, a broad smile overtaking her whole face. "I don't even care that I've lost my sunglasses. The sun on my skin… marvellous." She turned to look at him. "Where are we going, anyway? To the airport?"

"No, we can't leave the country just yet," he said. 

Her features fell. "Oh."

"Don't worry, I've made arrangements for accommodations. We'll go there, and you can take advantage of the amenities."

The smile broadened once more as the driver opened the car door for her. She stepped in and sat down, her fingers running over the leather seats. He sat beside her, reaching into his pocket for his mobile. "Here you are," he said, then further prompted, "Daniel."

"Ah yes! Sorry," she said, taking the mobile from him. "Do I just dial as usual?"

"Yes," he said, as the car pulled away from the kerb.

She held it to her ear, then laughed when Daniel answered. "No, it's me. It's Bridget," she said with a grin. "Yes, I'm out! It's a miracle!" Her eyes flicked to look at Mark. "And Mark Darcy is a miracle worker." After a pause, she said, "No, not yet. I guess we're going to a hotel." Then she laughed. "No, no, not like that." After another pause, she said, "Yes, sure, of course. And sure. See you soon. Bye." Instead of ending the call, she handed the phone to Mark. "He wants to talk to you."

Mark took the mobile. "Darcy here."

"Mark, you are indeed a miracle worker," said Daniel. "The papers are all about how the Thai police and London Metro have unearthed a smuggling ring, that the mastermind is in custody. Bravo, you magnificent bastard."

"You know I cannot claim all of the credit. In fact, I credit Bridget—Ms Jones—with unravelling the whole thing herself."

Daniel was silent a pause, then said, "First name basis, hmm?"

"Circumstances dictated less formality," he said stiffly.

Daniel just chuckled. "Oh, I'm just taking the piss," he said. "We can't have a proper celebratory party with you saying 'Mr Cleaver' and 'Ms Jones', now can we?"

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "We're nearly to the hotel. I need to get Ms Jones settled, and I have other business to which I must attend."

"Right, right," he said. "Well, keep me apprised of your return, all right?"

"I will," he said. "Goodbye."

He disconnected the call, and turned reluctant eyes to her. She looked exceedingly amused. "Daniel giving you a hard time, eh?"

"It seems to be his reason to live," Mark mused. The car drew to a stop and the driver came around to open the door. 

Bridget looked out and up at the hotel, saw exactly where they are, and pursed her lips. "Well, this should be interesting."

"What should?"

"This is a pretty posh hotel," she said, then looked at him. "I am currently… not very posh."

He smiled. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Just come on, we'll be in the lift before you know it. I've got the keys."

"All right," she said, though she sounded full of doubt.

Just as he said, no one batted an eyelash, not when the doorman opened the door, not when they crossed the lobby, and not while they waited for the lift. "They're all probably too polite to say anything," she murmured, which made him chuckle again.

He led her to the door of her room, used the card key for her suite, then opened the door. She stepped in, followed by the bellboy who bore her luggage. "Oh, my," she said. Mark slipped him a gratuity; he nodded in thanks, then took his leave of the room. "This is even nicer than our hotel, the one we had whilst filming."

He handed her the card. "I'll be just next door," he said, pointing towards the connecting door. "I'll leave my side unlocked. I'll just be working, so if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to come over. Well. Knock first so you don't take me by surprise." He glanced at his watch. "I've arranged for a doctor to come and examine you. Just to make sure you're in good health."

"I don't need a doctor," she said standoffishly. "I'm fine."

"You certainly do," he said. "You've been in prison for nearly a fortnight."

"I can arrange for my own doctor," she said. 

"When you get back?" he supplied sternly. "You may not be able to enter the UK without a clean bill of health." She offered a defiant pout; he continued speaking, amused at her expression. "They'll be here at four, so you have time for lunch and a nice long soak."

"Spa tub?" she asked, perking up.

"Yes," he said with a smile.

"Oh, heavenly."

"If you can provide your size," he continued, "I can get someone to find some clothing for you. I can also take the things in your bag and get them laundered by the hotel—you can use the robe provided in the interim."

"You've thought of everything," she said. "Thank you."

"I'm happy to do it."

She smiled, and her expression was tender, so opposite the first time she had looked at him. "Well, go on, and maybe later—" He stopped. To suggest they have dinner together was foolish; the last thing she needed was the pressure of the company of someone else, someone she barely knew.

"'Maybe later' what?" she asked, interest clearly piqued.

"I was going to offer to take you to dinner," he said; he could feel the heat creeping up from his collar, "but I would understand completely if you would prefer to remain on your own in your room, resting."

She smiled again, almost sympathetically. "That's a kind offer," she said. "I guess I'll wait and see after the bath, and the exam."

"Of course," he said. "I'll see you later, then."

He exited through the hallway door, then entered his room through the main door with the key. Once inside he was able to unlock the connecting door to her room.

Then he sat down at the table that had become his makeshift office, intent on making phone calls. Within a moment, he heard a knock at the connecting door.

"Yes, come in," he said.

Bridget peeked her head around the door. "I forgot," she said. "I'd like to call my mum and dad, and my phone is a lost cause."

"Of course," he said, rising from the table again, offering his phone to her. As she punched in the number he saw her eyes well with tears. "Mum," she said, her tone brave but wavering. "Hi. It's me. I'm free." She listened for a moment, then looked to Mark. "Yes, I'm with him right now."

………

After a brief conversation with a very excited Pam Jones—Mark could hear her hyper tones from his position several feet away—Bridget had returned to her suite to change into the robe and bring back her bag with all of her clothing, most of it previously worn and in need of laundering, in the bag. He could now hear the bath running, and with a glance towards the connecting door, he realised she had left it open in her haste to get to the promise of a hot soak. With a chuckle he rose from the chair, between calls, to go and close it, and as he did he caught a glimpse of her walking from the bed to the bath in a very short robe. He should have backed away then but he didn't. From the bath, he heard her say, "Oh my God! Down nearly a stone!"

That prompted him to step back and gently close the door; he felt guilty for intruding on her privacy. Instead of dwelling on it, though, he focused his energy on this next call, to Gregg. As he related the update, the knock at the door heralded the staff member who took Bridget's clothing and brought an outfit based on the UK size she had provided; a plain but serviceable pair of blue cotton trousers and a matching top. "We'll have them cleaned, pressed, and back up to you within two hours."

"Thank you," Mark said.

"She's settling in, then?" Gregg said, through the earpiece on his mobile.

"Presumably," Mark said. "She's having a bath in her suite. I don't expect to see her again until the doctor arrives."

By the time he was through speaking with Gregg and then with Cecil, there was another knock at the door; this time it was his lunch, and he decided to place a call to his mother while he ate.

"So it's true, then? The real drug smuggler is in custody, and they've released Bridget?"

"It's true," Mark said. "I've spent the whole morning and afternoon on the phone, catching everyone up on what's happening here with her, and them telling me what's going on with Mr Dwight. But my primary concern is for my client."

" _Bridget_ is in good hands," she said with particular emphasis. "Are you taking care of yourself, too?"

"I'm eating lunch right now. It's a bit late, but better late than not at all."

"Good," she said. "Hope you're able to come home soon."

"So do I," he said.

With that they said their goodbyes, and he sat and finished his lunch in silence, at least until he heard a knock on the connecting door. "Come in," he said, sitting up straighter in his chair, setting his utensils down. She was scrubbed clean with damp hair, still clad in the robe.

"Was wondering if…"

"Of course," he said, rising from the chair. "Your laundered possessions aren't back yet, but I do have some clothes for you."

"Thanks. The stuff in the suitcase is a bit too fancy." 

He handed her the folded pile. "I hope that this fits you."

"It may be a little big," she admitted. "There was a scale in the bath, and I… well. Habits die hard. Despite the chocolate and sandwiches, I've dropped a bit of weight."

He thought of her happy exclamation from earlier with a small smile, but he did not share in her glee. "I would certainly be the last one to judge," he said, "though you should be concerned for such a rapid weight loss."

"Pfft," she said. "Don't ruin it for me. It's the one good thing to come out of ten days in prison."

The hotel room phone rang on an internal line, and it turned out to be the concierge, indicating that the doctor had arrived. "A bit early, but we can just get this out of the way."

"Suppose I should just keep on the robe, then."

His eyes, of their own accord, flicked down and then up again. "I suppose, yes," he said. 

Doctor Boonmee—female, friendly, efficient—came up and into his suite, and took Bridget into her own suite. He paced a little, waiting for the conclusion of the exam, checking his watch occasionally for nearly twenty-five minutes when he realised how ridiculous he was being, like an expectant dad pacing a hospital waiting room. So he stopped and sat on his chair again. Shortly afterwards, he heard a quiet yelp from the other room, which caused him great concern; a few minutes later, Bridget came into the room, glaring angrily at him, her hand against her backside.

"She stuck me in the bottom!" she said accusingly of the doctor, who followed her into the suite.

"It's just a vitamin shot," said the doctor in a placating voice. "She is okay, but she shows signs of deficiency, Vitamin D. Just a little shot in the big muscle there."

"Wait," Bridget said, horrified; "are you saying I have a big arse?"

"Ms Jones," said Mark sternly, willing himself not to think about her backside. "This means there's nothing to worry about, then."

"But that shot _hurt_!" Bridget said.

"I'm sorry I don't have a lolly for you," Mark said coolly.

Her glare intensified. 

"If all you have to do is get a shot," he said, "then the sooner you can get home." He turned to the doctor. "Thank you, Doctor Boonmee," he said. "Feel free to send the health report over to me here by courier, and a bill for your services rendered."

"Thank you, Mr Darcy," the doctor said, nodding once to him. "Ms Jones, goodbye."

After the doctor departed, Mark turned to give her a very severe look just in time to see her sticking her tongue out where the doctor had just exited. "That was—" he began, preparing to scold her for this uncalled-for reaction, but she interrupted.

"I'm not going to apologise," she said, "for the great offense I take at my body coming under attack like that, being suddenly jabbed in the arse with a needle. I thought she was going to give me a little capsule or something out of her bag, and then suddenly, the robe goes up…" She rubbed her backside again to underscore her trauma.

 _Perhaps Boonmee's bedside manner isn't quite what westerners expect_ , he thought. "I'm sorry she didn't warn you better," he said, a bit more kindly. "But really, it's quite unnecessary to carry on like a child about it."

It was, in retrospect, the wrong thing to say. 

She drew herself up to her full height, which came to somewhere just under his chin. "I think," she said, with as much dignity as she could muster in that short hotel robe, "that I will be taking dinner alone in the suite tonight."

"Look, that didn't come out quite—" he began, but she slammed the door between the suites, and it was pointless to continue talking to the door.

At that moment there was another rap at his hotel room door. This time, it was the delivery of Bridget's laundered clothing, delivered in the bag in which they had been carried, and which had also been cleaned. He accepted the bag on her behalf. He took a quick look inside. Her things had indeed been washed, dried, pressed, and folded, even the blue jeans and her—

Quickly he closed the bag, his face flushing deep red. Even her pants. But, he had noticed, not the dark pink bra with its shaped cups, the one she had worn over her shirt on the day he had met her. What had he been thinking, looking inside?

With all business taken care of for the day—he could only let Rebecca know when to book a flight back for himself and for Bridget when they were actually cleared to leave—he put away all of his papers, then closed and locked his attaché. It was just past five in the evening, but there was no reason at all to remain in a suit and tie, so he traded the suit for casual trousers, removing the tie and unbuttoning the top shirt button.

He then heard a faint knock on the connecting door. He furrowed his brow, called out, "Come in."

The door opened, and Bridget came in slowly, dressed in the blue outfit she had received earlier. "Hi," she said.

"Your bag arrived a short while ago," he said, gesturing towards where he had put it on the chair.

"Thanks," she said; it seemed she was on the edge of saying more, and it wasn't long before she did. "Mr Darcy… Mark?... I'm really sorry about before. I shouldn't have acted like that. I was just so… humiliated, you know?"

He was inclined to accept the apology, but wanted to make himself clear to her. "I hope that in the future," he said, "until we are on our way out of here and back to London, that you will mind your outbursts. My duty is to you, my client, but it does not mean I have to tolerate the sort of tantrum I saw today, one that might get you detained at the gate again. You will have to find new legal counsel if that happens."

She stared at him, drew her lips into a thin line, then nodded once. "Right," she said, her gaze shifting away from him. Then, quite suddenly, she erupted in tears, driving the heels of her hands into her eyes as she turned away and began to sob.

He did not know quite what to do, and he stepped forward unsurely.

"I… I'm sorry," he said. "I do accept your apology, and I hope you accept mine. That came across a bit more heavy-handed than I intended."

"Bloody right it did," she said; when she turned back to him, she had stopped crying, but suddenly looked like the lost, scared woman he realised she'd been all along. "I thought we were friends, or at least friendly," she continued; her voice was thick with emotion. "Silly of me to think a few visits and chocolate bars meant anything more than you just doing of your job."

"I was doing my job," he said. "But I do think of you as… I mean, I would like to consider you a friend. It's just… I'm used to retaining a professional distance in these situations. I'm not good at finding the middle ground."

She seemed to notice then that he had changed his clothes. "All right then," she said her voice sounding more like normal again. "How about professional in the suit, and friendly in… well, I suppose that passes as casual for you?"

"Yes," he answered, slightly baffled. It _was_ casual.

"Thing is," she continued, "I just came back because… I would rather not be on my own tonight, after all. I got along with the other girls in the cell, but… I felt alone most of the time unless Charlie and then you came to visit. The closest I ever came to forming a female bond with the girls was during the Madonna song."

And he had blown it for her. "The offer is still open for dinner. We can eat here, or go down to the restaurant."

She looked down at herself at the rather shapeless cotton outfit. "Will they let me in like this?" she asked. "I'm not even wearing any—" She stopped suddenly, then flushed red.

He could only imagine what she had been about to say, and he gestured to the bag again to change the subject, sort of. "You have a full bag of clean clothes," he reminded. "Maybe something else you have would be better suited, if you really want to go to the restaurant."

She seemed to think about it, then sighed. "I should stay in," she said. "I feel so tired, and I've got dark circles 'round my eyes. Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel a bit more like I could appear in public without people looking at me like I'm the walking dead."

"That's quite all right," he said with a chuckle. "Decide on what you'd like, and I can order." He gestured towards the television that was mounted on the wall. "I believe the television gets English-language channels. You can find something you like, and make yourself comfortable on the sofa."

She offered a smile again. "In case it wasn't obvious before," she said, "your apology is likewise accepted."

She didn't need a lot of time to decide as she had already looked extensively at the menu. Her choice should have surprised him, but didn't: a cheeseburger with a large order of what they called 'steak fries', instead of any number of pretentious and expensive gourmet dishes that the hotel offered. "And… well, I shouldn't," she said, "but I'd _really_ love a glass of white wine."

"I think you have earned it," he said. 

She went and found the remote control for the television, and as if by intuition, she found the television listings. "Ooh," he heard her said as he placed place the order; he also heard the strains of a piano, music he found vaguely familiar.

"It should be here within twenty-five minutes," he said as he approached the sofa again. Everyone on the television screen was wearing period-style costume; the whole thing was vaguely familiar. He asked, "What's this, then?"

"Oh, you haven't seen this before?" she said, not turning towards him. " _Downton Abbey_. Series one, I believe."

"Yes, series one," he said. "I saw it when it first aired."

"Oh, it's _fantastic_ , isn't it?" she asked, and he agreed, though it was not the sort of television show he discussed over five-a-side. "Utterly classic. I loved cousin Matthew."

He watched with her until the crisp knock at the door brought him from his thoughts; he hadn't even realised the allotted time had passed. 

He went to the door, and the staff member, a young man whose nametag read Khem, wheeled dinner directly to the low table by the sofa, where they were obviously set up for the evening. The server placed one domed plate in front of each of them, and then uncorked the bottle of wine he had ordered. Khem acted as sommelier, pouring a sample for Mark, then pouring each of them a glass. He bowed, then backed out of the room with the cart.

Bridget took a long sip, then set the glass down. "Ohh, that's nice," she said. "But I'd better have some of this food, or the wine is going to go straight to my head."

The episode concluded and directly afterwards the next in the series began. There was little conversation, but it wasn't awkward; mostly they were engrossed with the on-screen drama while they ate.

"Oh, there's Matthew again," she said when he appeared. "I just love the way they look in those clothes."

Then the eldest daughter of the family came on. To carry on the conversation, Mark commented, "I always thought she was attractive."

"Lady Mary?" she said, incredulous. " _That_ stick insect?"

"Well, she is a bit thin," he said, "but—"

"Oh, no, it's more than just being thin," Bridget said. "She's snotty, spoilt, and stuck-up, and is just so mean to her sisters and to Matthew."

"Hmm," he said; he hadn't thought of it quite that way. He had seen raven-haired, slender Mary as poised, confident, and intelligent, a responsible daughter who bore the heavy burden of being the eldest.

"It's weird, though," Bridget continued, "that in a future season, after the first World War, that they end up as a couple… even though they're cousins."

"I suppose beggars couldn't be choosers after the war," Mark said; he hadn't actually seen past the first series.

"That's the thing, though. They got married because they loved each other. I mean, you could see the attraction before he left for the war. See?" She pointed towards the screen. It was a scene with Lady Mary and cousin Matthew. They did actually seem to have great chemistry.

"I would have expected they married out of duty," Mark said, genuinely surprised. "To keep the estate in the family."

She didn't reply, and he turned to look at her. "You're funny," she said with a light laugh. "So very medieval of you. This is set in the twentieth century, you know, just after the _Titanic_ sank."

"It was not unheard of at that time in some circles of society for marriages like this to occur; you know, for the benefit of preserving estates and titles. It was a bonus if the couple actually liked one another."

She regarded him with curiosity, then said after a few moments, "Something tells me this sort of thing, this arrangement, still occurs in some circles… and not just for estates and titles."

He met her gaze, wondering what she meant by this; rather, how she had more or less described his own failed marriage, one that was more business arrangement than life-partnership.

As the second episode concluded, he realised she had gone quite quiet, and that was because she had fallen asleep. _Little wonder_ , he thought, _after the day she's had_. But that presented a quandary for him: she was sleeping on his sofa, and he was loath to wake her up. He decided in the end to just finish his wine, and decide what to do after the next episode was done.

**Sunday, 26 April**

"Oh my gosh."

This sudden exclamation startled Mark from a sleep he had obviously drifted into after polishing off the wine. It was not just the exclamation, but the proximity to his person that surprised him; during the night, she had gone from a seated position to curled up on the seat cushions, with the top of her head pressed against the side of his leg. In a moment she scrambled to sit up, her skin as bright as beetroots. His skin was probably equally reddened, for he realised he had awakened with an unfortunate involuntary biological reaction.

"So much for my good night's sleep on a proper bed," she said, hiding her face with her hands, "but I'll admit that this was better than a mat on the floor."

He directed his thoughts towards cricket and willed himself to quickly make a break for the loo before she uncovered her eyes. "Be right back," he said as he rushed away.

"I don't really have fleas, you know," she called after him, humour in her tone.

Once inside the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water; it would have to do for now, as a full (cold) shower would have been terribly suspicious. 

Once he was able to quell things, use the toilet and brush his teeth for good measure, he returned to find she had left the sofa, and indeed, had left his suite. He went to the connecting door and rapped on it.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Um, it's me," he said; really, who else would it have been? "May I come in?"

Pause. "It's open, come on in."

He swung open the door to see her standing beside the bed. He drew his brows together. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Sorry, though."

"You don't need to apologise," he said. "I just… really needed the toilet." An embarrassing admission even if it were a lie, but a lie covering for something far more humiliating.

"Oh," she said with a light laugh. "Well, I suppose that's understandable. Better than thinking I really did have fleas. Or, you know, that your girlfriend would never understand… or that you had morning wood. That'd be so mortifying!" His face must have done something strange, or he must have blushed again, because she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God. _Is_ your girlfriend going to want to throttle me?"

He laughed, glad for the misunderstanding. "I don't have a girlfriend," he said, though he thought briefly about Natasha from chambers, who fervently wished otherwise.

"Oh," she said again, then tentatively asked, " _Boy_ friend, then?"

He smiled. "No," he said. "I'm currently not seeing anyone."

"Ah," she said. 

Desperate to change the subject, he asked, "Well. Shall we order some breakfast, then?"

"Sure," she said, then grinned. "Your place or mine?"

He couldn't help laughing a little at that. "Let's stay in my suite," he said. "My phone, my computer, all of my things are set up here."

She shrugged. "Sure."

For breakfast, she ordered a stack of pancakes with butter and syrup, and he, some eggs and bacon with a side of toast, along with a carafe of coffee. When it arrived, though, she seemed to have a little buyer's remorse.

"Oh," she said wistfully. "I should have gotten bacon, too."

"It's not as crispy as it should be," he said.

"Oh, that sounds perfect."

"Take some, then." 

She grinned, then plucked up two rashers from his plate. "Thanks."

"Did you sleep well, despite being on a sofa?" he asked.

She nodded, sipping her coffee to wash her bite of pancakes down. "Very much so. What a difference a mattress makes. Or a cushion, rather."

"With any luck," said Mark, "you'll be back in your own flat in no time at all."

"Fingers crossed," she said, "touch wood, and all that."

He did intend on making some phone calls after they were finished eating, but just as he was about halfway through, the suite's phone began to ring. "Pardon me," he said, touching his napkin to his lips as he stood to answer the call. It was the concierge, who wanted to let him know that a courier had brought something, and was it all right to bring it up to the room. Mark suspected it was the report from Doctor Boonmee, and told them to bring it up. 

Within moments he had in his hand confirmation of his suspicion. He glanced over the cover page that stated she was in good health, then handed it to Bridget. "Looks like you're fine, and cleared to leave Thailand," he said.

"Oh, goody!" she said, flipping through the full report. "'Cleared to leave'? Does that mean we can book a flight to go home?"

"Not yet," Mark said. "I need to clear it with the CIB. I'll do that as soon as I finish this." He indicated his breakfast.

"Fair enough," she said. "Don't want it getting cold."

Soon enough he was finished with breakfast, and on the phone to Inspector Sakda's office. He was surprised to reach the inspector himself. "Yeah, hello Mistah Darcy, sir," he said. "Many long hours. Very tired."

"I bet you are."

"We getting Mr Dwight here. Waiting for call."

Mark's eyes widened. This must have been a fairly recent development. "Oh, really?" he asked.

"Yeah, got call in middle of night," he said, then made a sound very similar to a yawn. "My apology."

"It's all right," Mark said. "I was contacting you to find out when we might be able to leave the country and return to London."

"Oh, we have answer for you by noon," he said. "Or just after, okay? Once we have Mr Dwight, you both go."

"That's great news," he said. He glanced to Bridget, who looked cautiously optimistic.

"Will call later," Sakda said. "Gotta go. May be trying to call us."

"Oh, sorry," Mark said. "Looking forward to hearing from you."

As soon as he put the phone down, Bridget asked expectantly, "So?"

"It would seem there have been some developments overnight," he said, then explained the situation with Dwight being extradited to Thailand. "The inspector says we'll hear from him by noon."

"Oh my God!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Fantastic news. Oh, can I call my friends?"

"They're all still sound asleep there," Mark reminded. "But we can call as soon as it's decent. With any luck… from the airport. Or the airplane."

She was beside herself with joy. "I can't wait," she said. "What on earth am I going to do until he calls, though, besides go absolutely mental?"

He mulled it over; he hardly wanted to get a car to take them somewhere without even having a destination in mind. Then as he glanced around the suite, his gaze lit upon the stack of information on hotel services, bound together in a leather cover, which sat near the phone on the table. He strode towards it, picked it up, and flipped it open. Then he smiled. "I think I have an idea."

"What?"

He brought the book to her and showed her what he had found. 

"Oh," she said. "Oh, my." She took the book from his hand to more easily scan the list. "Hot stone massage? Deep tissue? Sauna and steam room? Oh my heavens."

"Which would you like? I'll call down and get it booked."

"Really?" Bridget asked. "That must be spendy."

"Don't worry about that," said Mark. 

"Oh," she said with a grin. "Is this on Daniel's bill? I won't feel so bad, then. Any massage sounds pretty good about now. And maybe a little time in the steam room. Ooh, thank you."

"You're most welcome."

While she went back to her suite to brush out her hair and change her clothes from the ones she'd slept in, he rang the number in the book and was pleased to learn that they could take her in just 10 minutes' time. He went to the connecting door and rapped a few times. "Yes?"

"You've got an appointment at half past."

"Oh!" she said. "Already?"

"Yes."

"Bugger!" she exclaimed, then he heard her scrambling around. Then the door opened again. "Sorry. I'm ready now."

"All right," he said. "Enjoy it."

She didn't budge; she looked a bit confused.

"Did you want me to walk you down there?"

"Oh, would you mind?" Bridget asked quickly. "I'm afraid I'll get lost."

He chuckled. "No, I don't mind. I've stayed here before."

As they walked to the lift, she asked, "So, if you've stayed here before, have you had one of the massages here?"

"Actually, I have," he said. "I had a flight from Los Angeles once to Bangkok. Seventeen and a half hour direct flight. It was absolutely necessary to have a massage."

"Why didn't you arrange for one, too? Surely you've been stressed out since you've been here—at least until I was let go."

She had a point. "I'll see what they have available," he said.

Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for his plans to make some calls before the expected contact from Inspector Sakda, they had a second massage therapist available. Bridget convinced him to take the appointment. _More like pressured_ , he thought, though he was hardly upset about it. 

The massage was exactly what he needed; the masseuse (who was, to his surprise, a fair-haired Danish woman called Sofia) worked the knots out of his neck, shoulders, and arms, knots he didn't even know he had. She didn't stop there, though, and by the time she was massaging his feet he felt as if he had gone completely boneless.

"You'll want to lie there for a moment before you get up," the masseuse said, "and then do so slowly. You may feel a bit lightheaded otherwise."

"Not sure I could if I wanted to," he said, his voice muffled slightly by the table. "Thank you. Excellently done."

"You're welcome, sir," Sofia said with a courteous nod, "and thank you." With that, she left the massage room to give him time to rest, and then dress again in privacy. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he left, and grimaced at his mussed hair, combing it down with his fingers. The masseuse had just accidentally reminded him how badly he needed a haircut.

He was still combing his hand over his hair when he entered the lobby and found Bridget awaiting him, looking as bleary-eyed and blissed-out as he probably did. "That was the best idea ever," she said. "Thank you so much for having it."

"Thank you for convincing me to book one, too," he said. "I was just going to do some work." They began to walk towards the lifts.

He heard her snort a light laugh. 

"Why's that funny?"

"Sorry, it's just that… it seems like you're trying to squeeze work into every waking moment."

"I don't do that," he said, though he didn't sound all that convinced of it himself. He did overwork—to fill the various voids in his life. He had known this subconsciously, he supposed, for some time.

"When was the last time you took a day off?" she asked, then immediately said, "Sorry. We've just had relaxing massages and I'm pissing you off."

Truthfully, his first response was to bristle, because he'd been working on her behalf since the Friday before this last one, but he thought back to before that, and he couldn't honestly recall the last day he hadn't done any work at all. "It's all right," he said quietly, as the lift reached their floor. "I probably do need to take a day or two off when this is all through," he said. "I haven't had a proper holiday in…" He paused.

"Years?" she supplied.

"Probably."

"You need more than a day or two," she said. "You need a couple of _weeks_. At _least_."

It was just after noon; as yet, no call from the inspector. Mark also realised he was suddenly quite famished, and asked her about ordering lunch. 

"Oh, yes, that sounds wonderful," she said. "Feels like we just had breakfast. How is it that a massage makes you so hungry, anyway?"

"Probably related to metabolism," he said. "What'll you have?"

"Do they do a pizza?"

"I don't think so," he said.

"Then just the burger again, I think."

"Opting against the local cuisine, then?" he joked, picking up the phone.

"I'm not sure I'll ever eat Thai takeaway again," she said. "I've been put right off it."

He chuckled. "Point taken."

With the order placed, Bridget excused herself to refresh herself with a quick shower. Mark took the opportunity to visit his own bathroom, and combed his hair down again with the help of a little water. As he did this, his mobile began to ring.

"Darcy," he said.

"Hey, Mistah Darcy." As expected, it was Inspector Sakda. "We got Mr Dwight in our custody. You and Miss Jones can go home, but you must come back if we need testimony." 

Mark smiled broadly. "Great news, Inspector. I'll start making arrangements immediately. Thanks."

Just afterwards, he dialled Rebecca, to whom he had been providing regular updates. Nothing surprised her anymore, not even a call at 7am on a Sunday to ask her to book passage home. "For two," Mark reiterated, as if it weren't clear.

She laughed. "Yes, I got that," she said. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it and message you the details."

"Much appreciated," he said. "See you soon, I hope."

He closed the phone, a smile on his face. Knowing Rebecca's talent for speedy booking, he decided to begin packing his things; he picked up the phone to contact the concierge about the suit he had had cleaned on Friday, and they told him they would bring it right up.

And then came the rap upon the connecting door. "Come in," Mark said.

The door swung open and Bridget came in. "Oh, it's not here yet," she said. "Lunch, I mean. I would have thought. Didn't I hear voices?"

"Not yet," he said, "and it was just my voice. I have good news."

"They make pizza after all?"

He laughed abruptly. "No," he said. "Better than that. We can go."

"Go?"

"Leave Thailand. Back to London."

"Oh!" she said.

"We do, however, have to make ourselves available for potential testimony in the future."

"That's fine by me. We're going home!"

With this exclamation she jumped forward and threw her arms around him for a spontaneous hug, bouncing up and down on her toes. Reflexively he returned the hug, but did not hold it for long, because there was a firm rap at the hotel room door. She let go and flushed red in the face, as he answered the door. It was his dry-cleaned suit, for which he thanked the staff member before retreating into the room again. Truthfully, he had been grateful for the interruption; he really liked being that close to her, and he probably shouldn't.

"Sorry, I just couldn't help myself," she said, once the door was closed again. "It's just the greatest news since hearing I was being let out of prison."

"That was just yesterday," Mark reminded.

"I _know_!" she said, almost in amazement. "So much has happened in just a single day." Another knock, another staff member, this time with the lunch they had ordered, which they brought to the sofa again to sit back, relax, and eat.

"So," she said between bites of a steak fry, "how soon do you think we can book flights home?"

"I've already got Rebecca working on that," Mark said. At her confused look, he added, "My PA."

"Ah," she said. "I was wondering, 'cause you said…" She trailed off, picking up her burger again, then hesitating before taking a bite to say, "It must be pretty early in London. You called her just for this?"

"Well… yes," he said. "I made sure it wasn't too early."

"I could have done that, though," she said. "I'm really good at finding tickets."

Mark smiled a little. "It's not an imposition for her," he said. "It's why I pay her."

"But on a Sunday?"

"I pay her pretty well," he said, still grinning. 

Once they finished eating, Mark decided to continue packing, and he started by packing his cleaned suit into the garment bag. "Maybe you should go and put your things together too," he said. "Rebecca's pretty quick with booking. We'll probably get to leave tonight."

"There's really not much to pack," she said. "And it's probably actually still too early to ring home. Everyone probably went out last night and is hungover today."

He chuckled again, but his mobile rang again and he answered the call with due seriousness.

"It's just me," said Rebecca. "Have a question. You've got a choice of either 1.10 am, or 11.40 am. Which would you prefer?"

Mark glanced to where Bridget sat. He would have preferred the 11.40 am flight, to have one last good nights' sleep before flying all day, but he also knew that she was eager to get home. Bridget looked back questioningly, but he held up his hand as if to say it was nothing. "Let's go with the 1.10 flight," he said decisively.

"All right. Will message details as soon as possible."

"Thank you, again."

He disconnected.

"Well, she's booking the red-eye for tonight. That gives us a chance to pack, have dinner, then head to the airport."

Her smile was broad. "When does that arrive in London?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "We'll know shortly."

Rebecca's text message arrived by the time he had finished putting the rest of his suits into the garment bag. Bridget had stayed put, not saying a word, almost as if she just wanted not to be on her own.

"Ah," said Mark. "Looks like we'll be landing in time for breakfast on Monday morning. 7.15."

"Wow," she said. "I know it's because of the time difference, but it sure feels like time travel." She stood up. "It's probably not too early anymore to call home," she said. "At least not too early to call my mum and dad. Phone should be well and truly charged."

"All right," he said. "Just try to pack your things at the same time you're talking. The time before we have to check out will be here before you know it."

When he finished packing his things, he rapped on the connecting door to see how she was coming along. She called for him to come in, and he found her on the bed with her smart phone typing away. Everything was as he had seen it before. She had not packed a thing.

"What are you doing?"

"Just finishing some texts and emails. I left my mum a message on her machine, though who knows if she'll even notice it's there. So I figured I'd reply to emails and texts."

"You're not packed."

"It's not going to take me long," she said. 

"You'll want to dress for dinner, too," he said.

She looked down at herself pointedly. "Um. I _am_ dressed."

"I mean dress up, at least a little," he said. "We'll have dinner downstairs before we head to the airport. Finish that up, and you can pack."

She did, put down the phone, then furrowed her brow. "Don't you need to finish packing?"

"I'm done," he said. 

"What, are you going to supervise me?" she asked with a laugh.

"If it keeps you on task, I would be happy to," he said, "and I'll even tap my foot impatiently if it helps."

She laughed. "I don't actually mind the company. And as I said, I don't have much. It's really not going to take long."

He sat on the foot of the bed as she packed her bag, then went into the bathroom to put her sponge bag in order. "You kept what you're wearing out, I hope."

"Of course," she said. "But I'm also not flying for twelve hours in something uncomfortable. How's this?" She pointed to where a black dress hung in the closet, a pair of low-heeled pumps beneath. "It's from the suitcase. I don't think they'll mind if I wear it." 

"It's fine," he said. "And I take the point. I'll leave you to change, then. Come by when you're done and we'll check out."

He went back into his suite, double-checking around it for anything he might have missed, called down for a bellhop to come for the bags so that they could check out, and ensured his laptop and other business papers were secure in his attaché. Then came the knock upon the connecting door. "Come in," he said automatically.

He heard the door open and close but she said nothing. He looked up to her, and found himself at a loss for words. What had looked on the hanger like a rather standard plain black dress had turned out to be anything but, once she'd put it on; perhaps it was not so much the dress as the woman wearing it. The sleeveless dress clung to her form, accentuating her cleavage and hips before reaching to just above her knees. She had also pinned her hair up off of her shoulders, which made her neck look exceptionally long and lovely…

"So?" she prompted. "Is it okay? Will it pass muster downstairs?"

He shook his head as if to clear it. "It's more than okay," he said. He realised as he met her gaze that she had put on some makeup, too. Nothing too heavy; just a little grey shadow and mascara on her eyes, and a pale pink gloss on her lips. He noticed also that she was wearing earrings, simple but lovely, silver filigree with bright light blue gemstones. 

She seemed to notice his attention on the earrings and said, "I bought these at a bazaar while we were filming. They're probably fakes but I don't care. I loved the colour of them."

"They match your eyes," he said, for lack of anything else to say, otherwise he would have been tripping over his tongue for he had suddenly lost the ability to properly speak. 

"Do they? Oh goodie," she said with a smile.

He cleared his throat. "They're very pretty."

"Thank you," she said, taking the dangling gem between her thumb and forefinger; he didn't mind that she thought he meant the earrings. "Shall we go down, then?"

"As soon as the bellhop comes for our bags. Are yours…?"

"Yes, just inside the door. Shall I get them?"

"Allow me."

He strode into the connecting suite, shouldered her bag and picked up her suitcase, and brought them back to place them with his own. Then he went back into her suite to do another pass, and in doing so found on the floor in the loo the dark pink Wonderbra that had made an appearance twice before in his life.

He returned. "You left something behind, near the bathtub," he said.

"You didn't grab it?"

He felt his face flush. "It's an… intimate garment."

She drew her brows together, then went back into the suite to retrieve it. He heard her laughter, then she came back into his suite with it, folded down compactly for packing. "It's not like it was a dead rat," she said with a light laugh as she crouched to tuck it into her bag.

A quick double rap heralded the arrival of the bellhop, and with that they were heading to the lobby. They checked out, and the concierge placed their bags into a secure holding area whilst they were at dinner.

As they approached the restaurant, which was as elegant and as luxurious as could be expected for the highest-star-rated hotel in Bangkok, she said in a quiet voice, "I feel like I ought to be entering on your arm, or something." With his dark blue suit he was wearing, he at least felt worthy of escorting her there, and in response he held his crooked elbow out towards her. She chuckled, then slipped her hand through the crook.

Dinner was everything he might have expected, and not just because of the calibre of the restaurant. Over starters, a bottle of wine, and French cuisine better than he'd had in restaurants in Paris, they had a marvellous evening talking more as friends than lawyer and client, discussing the similarities and differences of their somewhat intertwined childhoods.

It didn't seem they were going to get away without having dessert when Bridget spotted chocolate mousse on the dessert menu. Her eyes lit up and she looked up to him. "One last naughty thing before going back," she said, waggling her brows, then giggling.

He could only acquiesce.

He ordered dessert—chocolate mousse for her, crème brûlée for him—and while they waited, Mark used his mobile to arrange for a car to come, to take them to the airport for their late night flight. They didn't have to wait long for the sweet treats. She ate her dessert mostly in silence except for exultations of how excellent the mousse tasted, how light it was on the tongue, and _rich_ , and…

After they finished dessert and espresso, they left the restaurant, she clearly more affected by the wine than he had been, and little wonder; she was smaller, had not had a drink save for the glass the night before, and coffee was not the great sobering influence it was touted to be, particularly not decaffeinated. During the half-hour drive, she looked out of the window and commented about the pretty, twinkly city lights; as she did, she leaned back against him, pointing to the tall buildings.

"They're like out of a science fiction movie, aren't they?" she went on, babbling with no apparent filter. "What was that one with Harrison Ford—oh, Harrison Ford!—and the cyborgs?"

"I think you mean _Blade Runner_ ," said Mark. "And they were replicants."

"What?"

"Not cyborgs."

"Is there a difference?"

"I think there might be," he said. "I'm no expert, though. I saw the film once, a very long time ago."

"Oh, you know," she went on, "I bet cyborgs have more visible metal parts, and such. Yes." She exhaled heavily, settling somehow ever closer against him. "Gosh, this is nice," she murmured. He could not help but agree. The gentle rocking motion of the car, the warmth of her against him… it was very pleasing, indeed. It was nearly enough to put him to sleep, and he began to feel very drowsy.

"Ooh! I think we're here," she said, bringing him back from the brink of that drowsy state. She sat up straighter and away from him, closer to the window, and he sat up too. "Such a beautiful airport," she said. "Also super space-age, isn't it?"

He had to admit that it was, with the way the gracefully arching canopies were lit up in blue and white.

They were brought directly to departures, their bags whisked away into the terminal as they went to check in. They still had three hours before the flight was scheduled to take off, but they still had to go through security to the gates. He could tell that this process was making her nervous, especially with the drug squad patrolling the queue with their leashed dogs.

"It'll be all right," he murmured, putting his arm about her shoulder consolingly. "There's nothing for the dogs to find in your things. I promise."

They passed through security and passport control with nary a second glance, and Mark could only think how much easier it must be for a man or a woman dressed as they were (to dine as they had in a posh restaurant) must have it to get through airport security, and how anyone who looked like a bedraggled tourist would catch the attention of the guards. He was grateful, in a sense, that the dogs didn't discriminate in that way. Someone looking like they did would just as easily be caught by their discriminating noses as that bedraggled tourist.

"You look deep in thought."

As they now passed through the airport promenade, her voice interrupted his thoughts, which had turned perilously close to being like those of a lawyer. He chuckled at the idea. "Was just thinking about the drug-sniffing dogs," he said. 

"Oh."

"And how I'm grateful for them, actually."

"What? _Why_?"

"Because they don't look at posh clothes, expensive jewellery, designer luggage. They only care about one thing, whether or not they detect the smell of drugs."

"Oh, I see what you mean," she said. "I hadn't really thought about it that way." After a moment, she added, "What did the guards do before they had the dogs? I shudder to think."

"Indeed."

Since they were flying home in the style and luxury of first class, they went to the airline lounge to spend the time waiting before they needed to board. The length of the day was starting to take its toll, and he would be very grateful to be seated so that he could try to catch some sleep.

As he looked through the messages on his phone, Bridget paged through some English-language brochures about the airport. "Oh my God, they have a spa here!" she said. "And a _sauna_!"

He smiled. "I don't think we have quite enough time for that."

"It's nice to know, though, for the future. I mean, in case I need to come back."

"We."

"What?"

"Well, if you come back to testify, I'll accompany you," he said. "To look after your best interests, legally speaking."

"Oh," she said. "That's nice. I really didn't like the thought of coming back here all on my own. If I need to, that is." 

Mark checked the time; he wanted to give them plenty of time to find the gate in order to board.

"What about shopping?" she said. "I mean, I feel like I should get Daniel a little something more for getting you on my case and getting me out. I'm hugely, hugely grateful to him and of course to you, too."

"I suppose we could," he said, though he felt slightly deflated. Of course this hadn't been an actual date, he thought. She was his client, and he, her lawyer; any affection she seemed to show was clearly due to the gratitude she felt not being in prison anymore.

They left the lounge and went browsing amongst the shops, which seemed never to close to accommodate the international travellers that passed through the airport. In the end she found Daniel a small lapel pin in the filigree style for which Thai jewellery seemed to be so renowned. "Sadly, I couldn't possibly bring him home what he'd really want: a Thai masseuse," she said with a wink.

He couldn't help smiling; he knew all too well that her comment was on the mark. "I think he'll be very touched," he said. "It's a very nice pin."

"I'm glad that you think so," she said with a smile, then handed him a second box. "Thank you, a million times over."

He opened the box she'd given him. It was different from the other one for Daniel, but also very attractive, all of those fine threads of silver coming together to make a strong and beautiful form. "I… I'm incredibly… thank you," he said. "You really didn't need to."

"No. I did." She pulled the box from his hand, took the pin out, and proceeded to affix it to his suit lapel. She smoothed it down then looked up to meet his eyes with a smile. "It looks nice."

He couldn't help but agree. "Thank you," he said again.

"Oh, it's midnight," she said suddenly. "We should go to the gate."

How easily he had lost track of the time in her company.

After tucking Daniel's gift into her bag, they made their way to the gate, waiting for boarding to begin. Before he knew it they were being called to their seats. They slipped out of their shoes; he took off his suit jacket while she removed her earrings and took the Kirby grips out of her hair for greater comfort. They were soon settling in with pillows and warm blankets into their seats, which were designed for reclining and sleeping on long-haul flights.

After take-off, when the lights dimmed, she padded down to the toilets then returned, explaining almost sheepishly, "I couldn't not clean my teeth or take off my makeup." He decided she was on to something, then went and cleaned his teeth, too, splashing water on his face. When he returned he found she had already pushed her seat back and seemed well on her way to sleep, face mask in place and all.

"Pardon me," he said, stepping around her feet. 

She pushed the mask up. "Oh, it's okay, I'm not sleeping yet." As he settled himself in again, she said, "It's funny, isn't it?"

"What is?" He looked over towards her.

"We're sleeping together again," she said, then laughed lightly. With a smile still in place, she pulled her mask down, then laid back into her pillow again. "Night," she said. "See you in the morning."


	4. Home Again

### Monday, 27 April

When Mark woke next, it was to the sound of the attendants milling around, preparing to serve breakfast. In reflex he looked to his watch, still set to Bangkok time, and saw that it read nearly ten-thirty a.m., meaning that they had had more than a full night's sleep. He felt pleasantly well-rested; it had been a long time since he could just wake when he wanted to wake, and laze about with nowhere to be. The day before had been another exception, but he'd still had business to which he had to attend. This was different.

"Pardon me, sir," came a voice from his side. "Care for breakfast? Something to drink?"

"Yes, your breakfast and a black coffee, thank you," he said, easing his chair upright. He felt Bridget shift in her seat beside him.

"Me too, milk and sugar, though," she said. He glanced over, saw she still had her mask on, until seemingly sensing he was looking at her; she slipped it off, opened her eyes, and looked back at him.

"Morning," he said.

"What's the time?" she asked, pushing her chair up, too.

"Where we just left? Just about ten-thirty in the morning. To where we're going? Still _very_ early."

She yawned, covering her mouth. "Oh, I should go to the ladies'. I'm desperate for—" She stopped, turning red. "Well."

"Don't let me stop you."

She pushed the blanket back, slipped her shoes back on, then rose and left for the loo, taking her sponge bag with her. He decided it would be a good opportunity to use the facilities, too, and went to another available loo. He splashed his face again, this time grimacing at the feel of the stubble there, but there was no time to shave before breakfast would be served.

He returned before she did—somehow, this did not surprise him—and was browsing through a magazine when she returned.

"Looking for helpful fashion tips?" she quipped.

He held it up, revealing it was the most recent issue of _Time_. "Yes," he said in total deadpan. "Clearly looking for fashion tips." 

She laughed. "Well, you know, the US president is a pretty stylish fellow."

Breakfast came—Belgian waffles with fresh berries and cream, sausage links on the side, and the promised coffee—and they ate in relative silence.

"This," she said towards the end of the meal, "is amazingly good. And on a plane, no less."

He had to concede that the meal was excellent.

"Then again, flying anything but steerage is a relatively new concept to me," she said, almost introspectively. "I may get to fly first class for work, but I'll never get used to it, no matter how many times I do it. It's so luxurious."

When they finished and the plates were cleared away, Mark pondered returning to the loo to shave. He quickly realised, however, that he had mistakenly packed his shaving kit into the suitcase he had checked, and had not tucked it into his attaché as he ordinarily would have done.

"What's the matter? Did you lose something?"

"Not lost, so much as mis-packed," he said, then explained he had no razor with which to shave.

"If you must know, off the record," she began, lowering her voice almost conspiratorially, "that a bit of scruff suits you. It's sort of roguish. Tracking down international drug smugglers? Who has time to shave?" She laughed lightly, which made him smile, even though he knew he should stop thinking about how much he liked the timbre of her voice when she spoke like that. 

After all, it was not appropriate for him to think of her voice as sexy.

"How much of the flight is left, anyway?" she asked, bringing him from his thoughts.

"Shouldn't be more than three, if my mental math is correct."

"Oh, goodie," she said. "Just enough time to maybe get a little reading in. Or watch a film."

He reminded himself that this was a working trip, and reached for his suit jacket where he had placed it when they'd boarded, in order to retrieve his mobile. Surely there were messages, updates, that he needed to know about.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking for messages," he said; they had internet available in the first class cabin.

"Work?"

"Well, yes," he said.

"Surely you can put aside work until you actually _land_ ," she said. "I mean, it isn't exactly a holiday we're coming back from—I do know this—but you did promise you'd take time off when you got back."

"There may be important updates about the case," he reminded.

"A compromise, then?" she asked. "How about you check for anything super important, and then you watch a film with me."

"Which one?" he asked.

"Well, whatever's on offer," she said. "I'll find something while you check."

He was wary, but reluctantly agreed. He needed to be reminded that there was more to life than working. "All right."

He had four messages pertaining to her case in Thailand that he felt critical—one from Gregg confirming that Dwight was successfully in Thai custody and invited him for a drink once he was back; one from Cecil congratulating him for the best possible outcome he could expect on the case; one from Daniel expressing excitement and delight that they were on their way home; and the last from his mother wondering when he would be landing (he replied to let her know)—then put away his phone.

He should not have been surprised by her choice of film—the newest _Jane Eyre_ —but he had promised to watch with her, and he didn't want to back down from that promise. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise. He had expected something trite and sappy, and it was anything but.

"Let me guess," she said as the credits rolled at the end. "You hated it."

"I didn't hate it," he said. "I admit I wasn't expecting much, but I actually enjoyed it."

"Oh, I'm glad," she said. "It gets such a bad rep as just another cheesy costume adaptation chick-flick, but it's such a good story. I was hoping you would think so, too."

"I'm not sure I would have ever watched it on my own," he said. "I never read the book."

"It's rather faithful to the novel, you know," she said. "Except for one small detail."

"Oh?"

"The same detail they always mess up," she said. "Mr Rochester should _not_ be handsome… and Michael Fassbender's basically a Greek god." As soon as words left her mouth, she turned pink, but went on. "They also always leave in the bit in these adaptations where he askes Jane if she think's he's handsome, and she replies 'No'… in this case, it only makes you wonder if Jane is in need of strong glasses."

He chuckled. "You seem to know a lot about it."

"I suppose," she said. "My degree was in English literature."

This information surprised him. "Interesting," he said. "Working in television, I would have expected you to have studied communications or journalism."

"I used to work in publishing," she said. "Unfortunately, it was in publicity, so I didn't even really get to put my degree to good use, there."

He remembered that detail from before, when she'd told him about how she'd met Daniel, when he had been her boss. "Do you get to use it much now?"

"Sometimes I can add a literary detail about a place we're going," she said brightly. "But I'm enjoying what we're doing. It's not high art by any means, but I love doing it."

"Do you have to travel a lot?" he asked.

"Not as much as you'd think," she said. "We only do six shows a series. Most of our time is spent doing research and preparing for filming."

"Don't you have staff do that?"

She shook her head, then amended, "I mean, we do have researchers and such, but Daniel and I both like to get really involved, too. To go to a place you want to speak authoritatively about and know nothing of it… you're just not going to be very convincing."

She had a point; he nodded in agreement and understanding. "So, about Daniel," he began; he was curious about whether they were still an item, and he wasn't sure he could trust Daniel's word on the subject. "Are you—"

The announcement came just then that they were preparing to descend for an on-time arrival in London. She tucked her purse away. He wasn't sure if he was glad for the interruption or not.

"You know, you'd better stow your briefcase," she said, pointing to where it sat on the floor near his feet.

"Right," he said, snapping from his thoughts.

"And no," she said.

"Pardon?"

"Your question," she said. He glanced to her as he sat up again. "Daniel and me. We're only good friends now."

He felt deeply embarrassed. "I was just curious."

"It's okay," she said. "I think the _Daily Mail_ puts us as a couple at least once a week. But that part of our relationship was over a long time ago. I'm okay with that."

"Ah," he said. What he really wanted to ask was whether or not she was seeing anyone else right now, but there was no reason for him to pry in such a way. He looked out of the window, saw the familiar rolling green hills, the bright splashes of the yellow fields of England. He felt very glad to see them; no matter where he went, he was always glad to come home. 

"Maybe you and I can have dinner some time," she said unexpectedly.

He looked to her.

"To sort of, you know, debrief on the case?" she continued, the end of her sentence lilting up as if she were asking a question.

"Yes," he said. "That's a great idea." He couldn't deny feeling a little deflated, which he knew was utterly ridiculous.

They were on the ground in very short order, deplaning and making their way through Customs then on to baggage claim. With every step her excitement seemed to build. By the time they were in the car heading into London, she was acting as if she had never taken a trip into the big city before.

"Home sweet home," she said wistfully as they drew to a stop in front of her building, the address she'd given the car's driver at the start of the journey.

"Do you want help up to your flat?"

"Thanks, but no," she said. "I'll be fine." The door opened from the outside—the driver—which seemed to startle her and she turned, but then she laughed in relief. "I really can't say thanks enough," she said, turning back to Mark.

"It's…" he began, but wasn't sure how to finish it. It was all part of the job he'd been hired to do, but at the same time, it had become much more than that to him. Something in which he had become personally invested. "It's been a pleasure," he said at last.

The driver retrieved her bag and her suitcase from the boot of the car, then took his place behind the wheel again.

"Wait," Mark said before he could put the vehicle in gear; as he suspected, she was struggling with her bag and suitcase, while trying to dig in her handbag for her keys… all this while wearing the dress and the heels from dinner the night before in Bangkok. "I'll be right back," he said, no further explanation needed as he exited the vehicle to help her upstairs.

"Let me give you a hand," he said as he approached. "You'll be out here all day, otherwise."

She looked sheepish, but handed her bags to him so that she could retrieve her keys. Once she got the door open it became clear pretty quickly that she would have had a very hard time getting up to her flat on her own, which, it turned out, was on the very top floor of the building.

"Guess I needed your help one more time," she joked, turning the key in her flat's door, then pushing it open for him. "After you," she said.

A few stairs led up into the flat proper. He took several more steps forward before setting the bags down. As he did this, he looked around, quickly taking in the warm, casual, cosy décor, the mismatched furniture, the many framed photos of spontaneous moments with people she very clearly adored, and who were fond of her in turn. And the books. She had shelves full of them, a stack on the table near the sofa that to his eye was probably her favourite place to sit, with a line of sight to her small television set.

"Forgive the mess," she said. "I didn't get a chance to tidy up between finishing packing and leaving for the airport."

"It's all right," he said, turning back to face her. "The driver's waiting, so I should go."

"Let me know if you hear anything more," she said. "Thank your PA for me, and I'll look forward to that dinner."

He was confused for a moment until he remembered the debrief she had suggested. "I will," he said. "Take care."

He went back down the steps, exited the flat and then the building. Halfway back to his house, as he texted Rebecca to let her know they had landed and that he was taking the day at home, he realised he should have gotten Bridget's telephone number in order to stay in contact. 

He also shot Daniel a text message to let him know the same, and added at the end in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner: _Neglected to take Ms Jones' number, however, if I need to follow up. If you don't mind passing that along, would be very grateful._

About thirty seconds after he sent the message, his mobile began to ring.

"Didn't ask for her number, hm?"

Daniel.

"I've just been on an eleven hour flight," Mark said wearily; he was tired, despite having slept for a good portion of that flight.

"Sorry, sorry," he said. After a pause, he said. "Glad that you're home safe and sound, truly. We'll all get together for that celebratory drink soon."

"Right," said Mark.

"And thanks again," Daniel said. "I really am very grateful."

"You're welcome," he said. "Goodbye."

With that he ended the call; a few seconds later her contact information, including address, appeared on his phone in the text message app. He saved it to his own phone, a small smile playing on his face.

"We're here, sir."

His head snapped up; they were indeed in front of his Holland Park home. He tucked the mobile into his jacket pocket then stepped up out of the car, then let himself into the house. Hard to believe that it had only been ten days since he'd left. He brought his attaché to his home office, then brought the suitcase directly upstairs.

The thought of a long, hot bath was suddenly, exceedingly appealing. He decided that this would be his reward for unpacking his suitcase, and he began the water flow as extra added incentive. It might have been the fastest he had ever unpacked his things, with everything either destined for the laundry basket or the dry cleaners. 

He had poured in a capful of an essential oil concoction his mother had given him for his most recent birthday, lavender for relaxation, and as he slipped into the hot water he could feel the tendrils of steam filling his nostrils, instantly soothing him. He leaned back so that he was submerged to his chin, then eased even further in so that only his face was above water; the bathtub was large enough to allow him to float almost totally freely.

It was almost enough to lull him to sleep. Almost. Mostly he couldn't help thinking how long it had been since he'd just done nothing; Bridget was right in saying he needed a proper holiday.

He sat up, slightly discomfited by how easy and natural it had been to think of her by her given name. Done with the bath, he towelled himself off, his thoughts still focused on this irritating conundrum. He should have been retaining some level of professional distance. _It hardly matters_ , he thought. _I'm just some guy with whom she occasionally spent an afternoon when we were children, and who helped get her out of prison._ There was also the matter of her past history with Daniel. He might have been something of a cad, but he was by no means dull. A woman like Bridget would probably never find a man like Mark interesting: a boring lawyer working far too many hours far too often…

He usually did not nap after long haul flights in an effort to readjust to the time difference, but this time he decided he would make an exception. The bath had helped relax him, but he was still bone-weary after the stressful days of working to free her, visiting her in the prison, making any number of phone calls and contacts. He also realised he was suddenly feeling very lonely. He had only really known her less than the ten days he'd been gone, had only spent a couple of days in Bridget's constant company, yet he now felt her absence acutely. More than he probably should have.

_Ridiculous_ , he thought. _You're being ridiculous._

If he thought sleep would allow his escape from these thoughts, he was sorely mistaken. At first the dream he had was perfectly pleasant, if mundane, mimicking his evening with her in the suite watching _Downton Abbey_ and drinking wine… and then it took a decidedly odd turn, when she stroked his shoulder, then grazed her fingers over his face, leaning to kiss him…

He awoke with a start, alternately damning and thanking his consciousness for keeping him from venturing into what felt like forbidden territory. Strangely enough, he could only think of what Daniel might have said if he knew of this dream: _You've gone too long without a shag, mate._

Except he didn't think that was it. She was attractive, but neither her physical attributes nor the prospect of sex were the primary reasons he was attracted to her.

He pushed back the duvet and sat up. Napping was pointless. He rose, dressed in fresh clothing, then went down to his home office, setting his laptop back up, his mobile to charge. He noticed a flood of inbound emails from people who had only just got the news, and voice mail messages from missed calls, some from contacts from the media who always tried (and failed) to snag an interview with him or his clients in high-profile cases… and he should have realised this might have become one.

He dialled Bridget's number in order to advise her on the possibility. He got her voice mail, so he left a brief message.

"Hello," he said. "This is Mark." He cleared his throat. "Mark Darcy. I just wanted to advise you to decline all requests for an interview should any happen to come your way, since I'm receiving some of these, myself." He paused. "Hope you're readjusting well. I'm sure I'll talk to you soon. Goodbye."

He disconnected the call, then proceeded to do some work to reclaim some measure of normalcy. He needed it.

### Friday, 1 May

The prospect of celebratory drinks should not have made Mark as nervous as it did, but there it was. He had talked last with Daniel on Wednesday, who arranged a small drinks party in his flat for that oncoming Friday. "You know the flat," he had said to Mark. "I haven't moved. Eight p.m."

He was, indeed, familiar with the flat. "I'll be there."

"Great," Daniel had replied. After a beat he had added, "Does this mean we're on our way to patching things up?"

"We'll see," Mark had replied, but his tone suggested that he was more than open to the idea.

His newly shorn hair looked perfectly coiffed, his shave was impeccable and still smooth to the touch, and his suit was crisply pressed. He had gotten fully over his jetlag, had also had gotten a decent night's sleep, so he looked much refreshed from the Thailand trip. He still felt somewhat uneasy, though, even while knowing at the same time that it was utterly ridiculous.

He left the house to allow for his arrival on time. Due to annoying but not unexpected traffic snarls, he got there a bit later than he would have liked. When he pressed the doorbell, and was surprised to find not Daniel greeting him, but Bridget Jones herself.

"Hi," she said, standing aside to allow him in, but he made no move forward, nor did he say anything. She looked even more beautiful than their dinner in Bangkok; she looked fully recovered and refreshed, the colour had returned to her cheeks, and she looked happy. The carmine red dress, cut low in front and sweeping above her knees, surely reinforced this impression. "Daniel told me 7 p.m.," she went on, "because he didn't want me to be late, I guess."

He snapped out of it, came in through the door. "And he put you to work?" Mark asked, attempting a joke.

"Ha," she said with a smile. "He's mixing some drinks. He said that it would be you at the door, and that you would only want a scotch, anyway."

Mark laughed a little. Daniel did know his habits very well.

"Come on up," Daniel called; he greeted them at the door with a drink in each hand. Scotch for Mark, and a mojito for her, though he actually had to ask what it was.

"All of the clubs seem to have some kind of variant on this drink nowadays," said Bridget.

"Ah," Mark said. "I don't go to many nightclubs. What's in it?"

"Um…" she began, staring at the drink in her hand, as if it could speak up on its own behalf. "Mint and lime."

Daniel began to laugh.

"Presumably there's alcohol in there, too?" Mark asked encouragingly.

"Rum," answered Daniel. "Sugar, lime juice, sparkling water and mint."

The combination didn't sound half bad to Mark, who pondered this as he lifted his tumbler to his lips.

"Hold on," Bridget said. "We have to toast."

Mark drew together his brows. "What about waiting for other guests?"

"There aren't any other guests," said Daniel. "This is for just us. I am so grateful that you took the case." He raised his glass. "To Mark Darcy, premiere human rights lawyer, top of the field and worth every pound he's billing me."

"Hear, hear," said Bridget, also holding up her glass. "Though in all honesty I think that bill should come to me."

"Don't be ludicrous," said Daniel, his glass drifting down. " _I_ hired him to get you out."

"I appreciate you doing so," she said, "but this was my mess to clean up. I can foot my own bill."

Daniel laughs. "Don't be such a stubborn mule. Mm. Poor choice of words."

She shot him a dirty look. " _Daniel_ —"

Mark cleared his throat. "I'm not sure this is the best time or place for this conversation…"

They both turned and looked at him simultaneously. "Sorry," said Bridget, and she did seem truly chastened. "To Mark. A true champion." She raised her glass again, and touched it to Mark's with a heartfelt smile. Daniel did the same.

They all took a long sip off of their respective drinks—if Mark had to guess, Daniel's had something with vodka in it—then lowered them again. 

"And now," said Daniel, "a little celebratory dessert."

He left the room; Mark shot a confused look to Bridget, who looked like she was suppressing a giggle. He returned presently with a small round cake, upon which was somehow, printed in icing, his own photo.

"Don't worry," Daniel said. "It's vanilla, your favourite."

"You needn't have gone through all this trouble," he said, amused.

"Nonsense," said Daniel. "A cake is the least I could do when you went halfway around the world."

"On your behest," said Mark.

"Come on," said Bridget. "There's cake to be had, even if it is only vanilla."

"Bridget considers non-chocolate cake on par with a human rights violation," Daniel quipped as he held out the knife for Mark. "You heard the lady. Here you are."

"I don't think I can bear to cut into my own face," Mark said.

"I'll do it, then," said Daniel. "Figure I'll just cut it into thirds, unless you're refusing cake, Bridget, on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment." He retracted his arm and hovered the blade over the cake, then made a decisive cut down through Icing Mark's forehead without hesitation. 

"Vicious," said Bridget, feigning horror. "I hadn't realised quite how creepy it would be to cut into that. I'll still eat it, though."

The cake was incredibly moist and delicious; watching Bridget take a forkful of cake into her mouth bearing a depiction of his own eye was a bit disconcerting, however.

"I'll deny I said it if asked," Bridget said with a wink, "but this is pretty good cake. Even for vanilla."

Daniel laughed.

"Thank you for this," said Mark with all sincerity. "I don't usually get this kind of fanfare just for doing my job."

"Not just a job," said Bridget. "You saved my life."

Mark glanced down, not sure what to say. He knew his work was important, but usually he didn't get quite such a personal show of gratitude. 

Daniel clapped him on the back. "Thank you, Mark," he said.

"You're welcome," Mark said, "but it's really not necessary to keep thanking me. I'm just happy I was able to effect a successful resolution."

Daniel and Bridget shared a look Mark could not quite define, then burst out into a little laugh. "Yep," said Daniel. "You're a lawyer, all right." Daniel set down his plate then held out his hand. "Talking of resolutions, I know there is probably work to be done to fully re-establish trust," said Daniel, "but I want to offer my complete, sincere, and unreserved apologies for my sins against you."

Mark realised how much he had missed Daniel's friendship, how short life was, how eager he was to let the past be in the past, after all. He reached out and accepted the handshake, allowing a reserved smile. "I accept your apology," said Mark, just to make it perfectly clear he did.

Bridget clapped in happiness, beaming a smile. "I am so glad for this," she said, then picked her cake up again to have another large bite. "Really good cake," she murmured.

"Care for another drink?" asked Daniel.

"Oh, yes, please," said Bridget.

"You, Darce?"

"I probably shouldn't."

"Oh, come on," urged Bridget. "This is a celebration!"

"All right then," said Mark. "Thank you." He glanced to Bridget. "It's very good scotch."

"That's the spirit," said Daniel, taking their empty glasses back to his makeshift bar.

"You should try a mojito," said Bridget. "They're _so_ amazing."

"It's not a good idea to mix liquors," Mark said.

"Oh, now, that's not true," said Daniel. "Now if you were to follow up your scotch with a glass of wine, you might regret it."

"You can't mix grape and grain," Bridget said, sounding like she was quoting something.

"All right, then," conceded Mark. "Mix one for me, too."

He couldn't say that he considered it amazing, but it was very tasty, though sweeter than he expected. He could, however, feel the effect of the second drink almost immediately, had a feeling he might be taking a taxi home. Bridget also seemed a little unsteady on her feet. Daniel suggested they all have a seat in the sitting room.

"Is like the prelude to an orgy—I half-expect porn music to start up any moment now," Bridget said languidly, then clapped a hand over her mouth, flushing bright red as Daniel began to howl with laughter. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she said, addressing Mark. "I have no leash on my tongue when I'm squiffy."

"I promise I had nothing like that in mind," said Daniel, "believe it or not. Though I'd be happy to fire up Barry White on the sound system if you'd like."

Mark suddenly wished he hadn't had anything to drink, as he couldn't make a graceful but quick exit. Mostly he wondered what on earth would put her in mind of an orgy, of sex. Instead he said to her, "It's all right."

"You're as red as a beet, there, Darce," Daniel said, chuckling. "I don't know, all this talk of orgies and porn…"

"Poor Mark," said Bridget. She reached and patted his knee. "You look like you want the earth to open up and swallow you whole."

He managed a small smile. "Yes, I rather do."

"Let's move on to other topics, shall we?" said Bridget. "Daniel?"

"I know," he said. "Perfect question. What is the next step for Thailand?"

"If they want Bridget's testimony, we'll go back," Mark said, sounding a lot more sober than he felt. "No question. Though I don't think, I mean, I _do_ think that they have a pretty solid case without the need for testimony." Bridget giggled; he had stumbled over the word 'testimony'.

"If you do have to go back," said Daniel, "I'll go with you."

"I'd love your company," she said with a wink, "but I'm still paying this bill."

Somewhere along the line Daniel had pressed a third drink into both Mark's and Bridget's hands, and had a third, himself. Daniel's tongue became a little looser, too, telling tales of their friendship at Cambridge. It was after midnight when the minicab (for which he didn't remember Daniel calling) appeared to take them home.

"Is this for me?" asked Bridget.

"Both of you. You can share. You live close enough to each other."

"Oh, okay."

They climbed into the back of the taxi, and with that, they were on their way to their respective homes.

"You're taking the lady home first, yes?" Mark asked the driver.

"Yes, sir," he said. 

The minicab seemed especially mini; they sat side by side with their legs touching along the length, and it was very warm in there. She had her hand on his knee for no other reason than to steady herself, but it was thoroughly distracting, to the point that he could not really think of anything to talk about with her.

"We're here, miss," said the driver, an older gentleman with a rolling brogue.

"Ooh, you're a doll," said Bridget, "calling me 'miss'. How much do I owe?"

"I'll get it," Mark spoke up, "when we continue on."

"Thank you," she said, then leaned to peck him on the cheek. "You're a doll, too. Put it on my tab." She winked. "Bye."

She got up and out of the cab, waving behind her as she ran to her building. 

When she got in, Mark directed the driver to go on, then felt obliged to add lest he think the worst, "I'm her lawyer."

"Sure, sure, no worries," said the driver. "I don't ask questions."

With that he paid the bill, then went into his front door. For a horrifying moment, he thought he'd left his keys behind at Daniel's, or lost them, but after a frantic pat-down of his pockets he found them.

This was a stark reminder of why he didn't regularly drink.

Once inside, he staggered upstairs, stripped out of his clothes, washed up, then fell into bed. He was asleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to M. for the Mr Rochester commentary. And for so much more. I literally could not do this without her. ♥


	5. Aftereffects

### Tuesday, 16 June

"You never took a holiday, did you."

It was not a question from Daniel so much as a statement. He was confused, though, because he hadn't talked with anyone but Bridget about a holiday, and in an effort to keep a professional distance, he had not had active contact with her again, save for a call to her upon learning Jed had been sentenced, and she would not in fact need to testify.

"How do you do know about that?"

"That doesn't sound like a denial."

"Everything got busy," Mark said. "So no, I didn't. Did Bridget tell you about that?"

"She did, actually," he said. 

"How did that even come up?"

"Meet me for a drink after work and I'll tell you."

_Intriguing_ , Mark thought. "All right. The usual place?"

"Actually, I had something a little different in mind. I'll message you an address. See you at eight."

Within moments he received a message with the name of what he presumed was a pub, and an address on the south side of the Thames. He was definitely intrigued.

He turned up at the appointed hour to find Daniel, with a drink, at a table for four; as he entered, Daniel stood to wave to him. Mark was confused. "Hey," Mark said. "Are we expecting someone else?"

"Mm-hm," he said, rather mysteriously, adding, "spectacular to be late when one only lives upstairs." He glanced to his phone and laughed. "Just out of the shower, can't find her pants… typical. What'll you have? Scotch?"

"Actually, a bitter, if you don't mind," he said; it was starting to dawn on him exactly who the third in their group must have been… and whether they truly were just friends.

"That does surprise me," said Daniel. "I guess an old dog _can_ be taught new tricks." He grinned then went off for Mark's beer.

The bitter turned out to be a great choice with the fish and chips that Daniel had taken the liberty of ordering for him. "I'm something of a pub food connoisseur," he quipped, picking up one of his own chips.

"So what is this all about, anyhow?" Mark asked.

"All in due time," said Daniel.

"Ah," Mark said, the pieces falling into place. "Our mystery third person."

"Yes," said Daniel. "And speaking of the devil."

Mark turned to where Daniel's gaze had raised to the door, and saw that it was indeed Bridget Jones. She grinned and waved a little wave of greeting. He wasn't surprised, not really. He smiled in return, followed her with his own gaze as she took one of the remaining chairs.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, reaching and plucking a chip from Daniel's plate. "Did you tell him yet?"

"I was waiting for you before I said a thing," Daniel replied.

Mark felt his brows lift quite of their own will; Daniel began to laugh.

"I see you're intrigued," Daniel said. "We have been discussing something, as friends and as co-presenters on a ridiculous television programme. We want to thank you."

Mark smiled. "You've already done that in spades."

"I mean, _really_ thank you," said Daniel. "You're coming with us on our next _Smooth Guide_ shoot."

"I'm… what?"

"We're forcing you to take that holiday you keep putting off," Bridget said, beaming a smile. "And you can't refuse for work reasons. Turns out one of my very good friends works in chambers with you. We talked with him and he's arranging to take care of everything while you're gone."

"But won't you be working?"

"For some of the time," said Daniel. "Intending on this being a holiday after we're done."

Mark felt a little gobsmacked. "And to where are you stealing me away?"

She looked to Daniel, then back to Mark again with a beaming smile. "Switzerland."

His mind flashed instantly to Geneva and everything it represented, past and present. 

"You could at least look pleased, mate," said Daniel.

Mark looked to Daniel, wondering exactly what his expression had done. Bridget looked equally disappointed. "Sorry," he said with genuine contrition. "Where in Switzerland?"

"The better question is, where _not_ in Switzerland?" Daniel said. "This next show is all about chocolate, cheese and clocks."

Mark smiled. "That's very thoughtful," he said, "but I don't think I can accept such a generous gift from a client."

"Would it help if I fired you?" Bridget asked with a smirk.

"You're fired," Daniel said. "Now. Friday. Pickup is at 4 p.m. Pack for pleasant weather." He wagged his index finger at Mark. "No bloody suits."

"For how long am I being kidnapped?" Mark asked sarcastically. "So I can pack sufficiently."

"A fortnight," said Daniel. "Though there will, obviously, be laundry service available. We're not going to the middle of the Gobi Desert, after all."

He sighed, feigning defeat. "All right," he said. "Honestly, it sounds wonderful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Bridget. "It's a drop in the bucket compared to the gratitude I feel, but it'll do."

"Really, don't feel you owe me anything more," he said. Truthfully, the repeated reminder of the debt she felt towards him was making him a bit uncomfortable.

Oddly, she seemed to sense his discomfort. "Won't mention it again," she said, then mimed turning a key over her lips and throwing it away. He did not reply, only gave her a small smile and a nod in appreciation.

Just then, the barman started to wave for their attention, or at least Mark assumed so given Bridget's and Daniel's heads snapped up, at least until he turned around. "Oh, I bet they put together my favourite dish," she said sheepishly. "Best go and get it."

"I'll get it," said Daniel, rising then walking to the bar.

"I told you that I'd make sure you took your holiday," she teased Mark.

"My instinct is always to resist," he said quietly, staring into the bottom of his bitter. "I work too much."

"I didn't want to say that," she said, "but I was thinking it." He looked up to her. Her expression was kind; her eyes, warm. "You need a holiday."

"I need a holiday," he repeated.

"Admitting you have a problem is half the battle," she said.

After a beat, Mark asked, "So how have you been since your return?"

"Positively hounded by the paparazzi," she joked. On a more serious note, she added, "It's been fine. I sometimes wake up in the dark of the night and strain to hear the trains if I can't see anything. I worry that maybe I dreamt the whole thing, getting out and coming home."

"Have you thought about talking to a professional?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

Daniel arrived then with Bridget's dinner and a glass of wine for her. "Don't let me interrupt," he said. "What's this about a professional?"

She glanced away, breaking Mark's gaze. "I have had some dreams about being back in the cell, that's all," she said. "It's not really a big deal." She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and smiled. "Really. Thank you for bringing this over. And wine. My hero."

"Can't get too pissed," said Daniel. "It's Tuesday. Work to do tomorrow."

"Of course," she said, winking, taking a sip.

She was putting on a good show, but Mark had seen something in her face that belied her cheery exterior. While she hadn't suffered physical abuse, she was still experiencing some trauma from her stay, and she didn't want to admit it. He was concerned about her.

They finished drinks and their meals and decided to part for the evening; before she went back to her flat, though, Mark pulled her aside as Daniel went to the gents.

"If there's anything you want to talk about, regarding Thailand, don't hesitate to ask me," he said, feeling the confidence of his professional persona slip into place. "Many of people whose cases I handle experience the same thing."

She offered a smile; he could tell that it was genuine. "Thank you," she said, "but really, I'm fine."

"Fair enough," Mark said. "Someone once gave me some very good advice, though."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "That admitting you have a problem is half the battle."

She blinked a couple of times, then smiled again. "I'll keep that in mind," she said. "Really, thanks."

"You're welcome," he said. "I'd be happy to put you in touch with a professional if needed."

"Thanks," she said again.

"All right," said Daniel, sweeping up to them quite suddenly. "I'm off."

"As am I," Mark said. "Have a good night."

Daniel leaned and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Mark looked on, smiling politely, wishing he could get away with doing the same.

They left together, Daniel heading for his car as Mark went in the opposite direction for his own. From behind him, Mark heard Daniel call back, "I saw that."

Mark stopped, then turned around. Daniel was grinning. He knew he was being baited, but asked anyway, "Saw what?"

"I know a longing look when I see one," Daniel said. "Don't hold back on my account."

After a moment of consideration, Mark said, "I will bear that advice in mind."

Daniel barked out a laugh. "Ever the equivocator," he said. "Cheers, Darcy."

Driving back to his house helped to take Mark's mind off of the thoughts that had begun to churn up. Was it completely outside the realm to want to deepen his friendship with Bridget, maybe deepen it to something more than that? Right now, he was able to allow himself a glimmer of hope.

### Friday, 19 June

When Daniel called late on Thursday to ask him for lunch on Friday to check on last minute details before the flight to Switzerland, instead of the 4 p.m. pickup, Mark could only agree. In some ways he felt like he was making up for lost time with their friendship, and he felt inclined to accept every invitation Daniel offered. 

Daniel came instead at about 11:30 a.m. "We'll have lunch somewhere close to here," he said. It made perfect sense to Mark, so together they walked to a nearby bistro. Once seated, once drinks and meals were ordered, Daniel wasted no time bringing Mark up to speed to their plans. "We're flying into Zurich," he said, "then we're taking trains to other cities. There, that's settled." He picked up his bitter, then took a sip. "Now, the other thing I wanted to speak to you about."

Mark felt a foreboding wash over him. Once again, the trap was set, yet he asked despite his better judgment, "What other thing?"

Daniel cocked a brow. Mark instantly knew: his parting comment regarding Bridget.

Then Daniel leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, "I can help."

Mark felt his jaw tense. 

Daniel said, "Aha! So I see I've struck a nerve."

"Daniel, I don't want to complicate everything."

"There's nothing to complicate," he said. "I know you fairly well. I know her well. I think you might really hit it off." He waggled his brows. "I could in fact give you the inside line. I know everything she likes. Movies, books, food… sexual positions…."

" _Daniel_." Mark did not want to think along those lines any further. It would not make the holiday any easier to deal with.

Again Daniel laughed. "I am a wealth of information on the subject. Just saying."

"Duly noted." Mark sipped his own drink, then asked, "Has she mentioned those dreams again to you?"

Daniel shook his head. "What did she say, exactly?"

"That she'd wake sometimes at night and if it's too dark or she doesn't hear the train, she thinks she's in the jail cell again, that coming home has all just been a dream."

"Ooh, that's gotta be tough."

"It's not uncommon," Mark said. "She may think she's okay, but post-traumatic stress has a way of creeping up on a person."

"Well, she'll be under two pairs of watchful eyes," Daniel said. "Surely one of us will notice if things get bad."

"We can't be with her twenty-four hours a day."

"Maybe not," said Daniel, then grinned a little. "Or maybe one of us will."

Mark did not dignify the comment with a response, and only took a drink of his beer, contemplating the fact that he really did want to know more about her, get closer to her. "So," Mark said at last, "what would you recommend?"

"Oh-ho," said Daniel, perking up considerably. "Do you mean for a sexual position?"

"I mean," he said, "for a possible dinner date. I wouldn't want to ruin the friendship we've formed so far. Plus…" He paused. "I wouldn't want her accepting out of gratitude."

Daniel seemed to think about things for a moment before answering. "If she accepted," he said, "it wouldn't just be out of gratitude. It would because she wanted to go. Because she liked you."

Mark was dubious, and said tentatively, "She seems like the kind of person who might accept because she didn't want to hurt my feelings."

"She is the sort of person who wouldn't want to hurt feelings," he said, "but she is a firm believer in not perpetrating fuckwittage."

"In what?"

"Fuckwittage. Playing with people's emotions, stringing someone along when you don't feel it," Daniel said. "Something I'm guilty of, myself, and something I've been working on, so I can be less of a fuckwit in future." Daniel leaned closer. "If you're going to ask her out, and I mean _properly_ out," he said, "make sure you're very clear that it's as more than just friends. Otherwise, that might lead to disappointment."

Mark knew he meant his own.

"And if she were to turn down, shall we say, a romantic overture," Daniel continued, "she'd be very kind about it. She's not into being mean for the sake of being mean."

"Hmm," Mark said. Daniel was as neutral as Switzerland itself; he did not say anything that suggested he had inside information, one way or another, on how she might have felt about him. That was all right. In this case, he was willing to take a little gamble.

"One additional piece of advice," Daniel said.

"I'm all ears."

"If you ask on the first day there, and she accepts, _and_ you really hit it off," he said with an impish grin, "try not to spend all of your waking hours shagging, okay? She does have _some_ work to do."

Mark was not sure exactly what his face did, but whatever it was, it caused Daniel to laugh uncontrollably.

………

They—Daniel and Bridget, he supposed—had really splashed out for the flight to Zurich, all ninety minutes of it. Directly after leaving the pub, they'd gone to pick up Bridget, and after a short wait they were off to the airport. 

"What?" asked Bridget after a few moments. No one had said a thing in many minutes. Mark had remained in the front passenger seat at her insistence because he needed the leg room, and had been deep in thought about his lunch with Daniel as he gazed out the window; her exclamation had pulled him from this contemplation.

"What?" Daniel shot back.

"You keep looking at me in the rear-view mirror."

"I'm not."

"And you're smirking."

He made a dismissive sound. 

"Mark, what's going on?" Bridget asked.

"Unfortunately," Mark said, "I would have to be a mind-reader to know what's going through his head."

"Hmmpfh," she said, sitting heavily back against the seat. "I am not sure how much I'll like this all-boys-together thing."

"Tess will be on crew, so you're not totally lacking female companionship," said Daniel. He glanced over to Mark and winked with his right eye, ensuring Bridget wouldn't see. Mark warned him with his expression alone to cease and desist with the smirking.

"I suppose," she said. "At least for the filming parts."

"Maybe," said Daniel, "if you're very good, I can let you in on it."

Silence, then: "You are an awful tease."

Despite the expected and requisite traffic snarls, they made it to the airport with a little time to spare, sliding through passport control and to the plane, where complimentary drinks were pressed into their waiting hands almost immediately. Bridget sat on the aisle seat next to Mark in the spacious, comfortable seats, with Daniel just on the other side of the aisle. Shortly after, they were taxiing down the runway, and then smoothly aloft in the air.

"Mmm," said Bridget, leaning back and then having a sip of her wine. "It's going to be hard to remember that this isn't actually a holiday." She sighed, leaning her head back, closing her eyes. "Maybe we can get through the filming fast, and treat the rest of the time like one."

"I thought that was the plan," Mark said.

"Oh," she said, smiling beatifically. "Right. Good." 

"You make it sound like filming's some kind of chore," Daniel said teasingly.

"Of course it's not," she said, turning her head to look across the aisle. "But it does mean I can't have a long lie-in half of the morning."

The flight attendants came by then to offer a light snack, topping up their drinks, and Mark felt a pleasant warmth wash over him. He had sat next to Bridget on their long flight back from Thailand, but that had been under totally different circumstances. Now they were travelling as friends. He hoped that they might soon be more than that.

### Wednesday 24 June

The point of a holiday was to relax, but very quickly it seemed to Mark that he was not destined to relax as long as his unspoken question hung over his head. From the first two days in Zurich, snaking slowly down through Lucerne and Interlaken, stopping to film as they went along, until they all ended up in beautiful Bern in the late afternoon nearly a week after first touching down.

Mark was just settling into his hotel room—one that afforded a splendid view of the river Aare—when there was a knock upon his door. He reasoned it was either Bridget or Daniel. He called for them to come in.

It was the former. "Hi," she said with a smile as he closed the door behind her. "Everything appears to be in order," she went on, looking around, nodding her head in approval before settling her gaze on him. "We're going to wrap up filming tonight and tomorrow."

This was information Mark had already had, so he was instantly curious as to why she would come to say so. "Ah, yes," he offered.

"So I was just wanting to know is," she said, her fingers tucked into her front jean pockets, hesitating for a moment before she continued. "Are you interested in being in the segment?"

The question was a little unexpected. "Doing what, exactly?" he asked.

"We're going to go to the cathedral," she said. "Tess said they secured permission. It's apparently just gorgeous inside… and maybe you could just, I don't know, be in a pew or something. I just thought it'd be nice for you to be a part of it."

He smiled. He had accompanied them to most of their shoots, though hadn't actually been on camera. "That _would_ be nice," he said. "Thank you."

"Great," she said. "And you're welcome, of course. We'll probably go in about thirty minutes, so you can meet us in the lobby."

Mark figured it was probably closer to forty-five, given what he had observed of her behaviour over the course of the previous few days, but went down at the appointed time to find that the crew (Tess, the cameraman, the sound guy) sat there flipping idly on their smartphones. When they saw movement, they glanced up and smiled a hello before returning to their small screens. Daniel was not there yet, either. He too knew better.

"She's always late." It was Daniel, after some minutes, approaching him from behind.

"I know," Mark said. "But I strive not to be. And on the off-chance you did leave on time, I didn't want to be stranded."

"Mmm," said Daniel. "Mister logical, you are."

It was nearer the forty-five minute mark when Bridget appeared last of them all, looking apparently unaware that she was much later than she had estimated. Not a single person seemed surprised, either. Tardiness usually irritated Mark, but in this case this amused him more than anything; he imagined Daniel teasing him that lust made a man do stupid things. It wasn't lust, though. Not really. Lust implied that there was merely a physical component, and that was definitely not true.

"Are we all set?"

When he turned and saw her, the transformation from how she'd looked when they'd flown in, when she'd turned up in his hotel room to how she looked now reminded him that lust played at least a small part of his feelings. She was wearing a smart suit jacket and a skirt in a fetching pale blue shade that enhanced her eyes, along with what appeared to be a light white silk blouse beneath. Her golden hair was pulled back into a barrette at the base of her neck, a light fringe framing her face, giving her a polished but natural look. It highlighted everything he found attracted, and he had a hard time looking away.

"Just waiting on you, princess," teased Daniel. "Let's go."

The cathedral was just a short walk from the hotel, and the weather was pleasant. As they walked Mark became aware that the cameraman was in fact filming; he imagined that they would lay down a voice-over at a later time. He wondered if they were filming him, if they would use it.

The cathedral was indeed as breath-taking inside as he had been led to believe; high arching ceilings so high they appeared to be nothing more than ruby-encrusted grey lace. "Just astonishingly gorgeous, isn't it?"

He turned to see where she had come to stand beside him. He smiled. "It really is," he said. Her shoes had higher heels than she normally wore, so she was just a bit taller than usual. "Thanks for inviting me along."

"My pleasure," she said. "So, you can have a seat, or walk around, pretend like you're a tourist."

"I am, sort of," he said. 

"Though I don't see many other tourists wearing suits like you."

He looked down to his linen jacket and trousers, then grinned. "Not exactly a pinstripe I'd wear to court," he said. "And you're in a suit, too." After a pause, he added, "Though I suppose you need to be, hosting the show."

"You've seen clips, right?" she said. "I'm not always dressed up. Sometimes it's even fancy dress."

He chuckled lightly to himself. "Yes, I have seen them," he said. He looked to her again. "You do look very nice in that."

"Thanks," she said. Her face softened a little. "Look, I wanted to ask—"

"Bridge!" interrupted Daniel. "Need you over here!"

"Sorry," she said. "Just… look 'round."

"Be a background person," he said with a nod. "Got it."

He took to studying the stained glass art as activity went on behind him, as muted voices spoke behind him, undoubtedly discussing the shot they were about to take. This was confirmed as the lights brightened behind him, as the voices—Bridget's and Daniel's—became a little louder. He couldn't help but wonder, though, what it was she wanted to ask of him, especially as she had seemed to turn a little… almost apprehensive.

He wandered a little further away from the filming to have a closer look at the pipe organ, then moved towards the altar. He watched as the angle of the sun that came in became more and more oblique. He sensed the dimming of the filming lights out of the corner of his eye, but didn't turn until he felt a hand on his forearm. He smiled. It was Bridget, as he suspected.

"We're all through," she said.

"I figured as much," he said.

They began to walk through the nave, towards the front door. "So the rest of the evening is free," she said. 

He waited for more, but no more came. "That's good," he said.

She stopped just before the door. The rest of the crew and Daniel had gone outside already. "Daniel's taking some girl to dinner that he met online and has been chatting with for a month or so," she said. Mark wondered if this had factored into the decision to come to Switzerland. "The crew's going out together. So I thought… maybe you and I could… I don't know. Have dinner together."

"Yes," he said, probably too quickly. "I'd like that, yes."

She grinned, looking up at him through her lashes. "You know," she said in all confidence, "I had been hoping you'd ask me, but I just got tired of waiting."

Mark laughed, a short burst of relief that overtook him before he could stop himself. "I had wanted to ask," he said, "but didn't want a weird situation for the rest of our trip, if you didn't want to."

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

"You're a television presenter," he said. "I'm a barrister."

She blinked but didn't say anything, as if expecting him to say more. "And?"

He thought it was obvious. "My job, my life, is the opposite of fun and glamorous," he said. "I spent long hours reading, researching, and writing. I hardly ever go out."

"And you don't take holidays, yes, I know," she said with a smile.

"I'm just… not that exciting," he admitted, admonishing himself as he did; was he trying to talk her out of it? 

Instead of muttering apologies that she had been mistaken to ever have asked, she said, tilting her head to the side, "Hold on. Do you think I'm fun and glamorous?"

Mark felt a flush of heat on his face, most unwillingly. 

She grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."

He cleared his throat. "There was also the matter of you being my client."

She made a dismissive sound. "You were fired," she said. 

"So I was."

The church door swung wide open surprisingly quickly for its weight, the evening sun blasting them with the final remnants of daylight, a huge difference from the dim of the alcove. It was Daniel. "All well in here?"

"Yes," said Bridget through her teeth. "Just fine."

"Was beginning to think you might have—"

"Jesus, Daniel, do not even say it," said Bridget. 

Mark knew Daniel well enough to know what his next words easily could have been, involving accusations of utilising a church pew for canoodling, or more. Daniel was all innocence. "I was just worried."

"No need to worry," she said, then glanced to Mark. "Though you do have a point. We have a dinner date to get to."

Daniel's brows rose. "Ahh," he said, then looked to Mark almost in a congratulatory manner. He would have to straighten out the misapprehension later.

After they said their goodbyes, Bridget drew out her mobile phone and consulted something on the screen. After asking her what she was doing, she advised, "It's an app that says which restaurants are nearby, where they are, and if they are any good."

"There's always the hotel restaurant," Mark said. "Five star."

She laughed lightly. "I suppose, but we could stray from the beaten path a little, too. What do you say?"

Challenging his boundaries, pushing him out of his comfort zone… a little terrifying, but he thought it would be worth it. "All right."

As it turned out, she had already browsed the app in advance, and had picked a few sufficiently interesting and well-rated restaurants nearby; she revealed that it was part of the reason she'd been so late. As they walked, her hand tucked securely into his elbow, he said, "I'm glad that you asked."

"I thought it was the perfect opportunity," she said, squeezing her hand a little on his forearm. "That way, if everything were to go horribly wrong we could just return to London and pretend it never happened." He glanced over and saw her beaming smile; clearly she didn't really think it was going to go horribly wrong. Neither did he.

The restaurant she had found deserved top marks, both for their food, and the privacy afforded to them in the atmospheric place. There was nothing uncomfortable or stilted about the night; conversation flowed free and easy. He found himself often gazing at her while she told him another story from shooting, perfectly welcome to let her talk. She knew how to tell a story, and she looked radiant and animated as she did. Even when a silence fell, though, there was nothing awkward or uncomfortable about it. He felt it boded well, indeed.

They did have a disagreement at the end of dinner, albeit teasingly, over the bill. He felt he should pick it up, and so did she.

"I asked you to dinner," she said. "It's not the 1950s."

"But I asked you first," he said. "In Thailand."

She pursed her lips, fighting a smile. "You can pick up the next one. So. How about some coffee? Dessert?"

Here was his first twinge of nerve. "No."

"No?" she repeated, then in a disappointed tone, "Oh."

"Not here," he amended. "I was hoping we could return to the hotel, instead."

"Oh," she said again, this time, understanding. 

For the walk back to the hotel, when she placed her hand through the crook of his arm again, he placed his hand atop hers, drew it away, instead holding it loosely in his own. "I thought this might…" he began, then cleared his throat. _Be nicer. Be more like a date than an escort._

"Yes," she said. "You're right." She twined her fingers with his. "This is better."

He said very little on the walk back, thinking only of her hand in his. He headed for his room without prior discussion; she said nothing, so he could only assume she had no objection. He had gotten to know her well enough to know she would speak up if she had something to say.

Once inside, he released her hand in order to divest himself of his jacket. "I'll call for a couple of coffees, then," he said. "And some torte?"

She didn't answer, so he turned back to her; she stood there, her hair slightly disarrayed from the brisk breeze outdoors, her blue eyes fixed on him, her lips parted slightly, at least until she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, then quickly pressed her lips together again.

"Is something—"

No, nothing was wrong, he quickly learned, as she came up close to him. He stopped speaking abruptly as she brushed her fingers on the linen of his shirt over his shoulder and down his arm, studying her own actions intently until she turned her gaze to him again. "I think I first wanted to kiss you," she said quietly, "when I realised how clever you were, back in Thailand, in the meeting room, when you first told me what you'd worked out about the bowls. I thought I was just being desperate and silly and over-grateful to you for getting me out of prison. But the thing is, it's been a couple of months now, and I _still_ want to kiss you."

He said nothing in response, for he could not find the words to express adequately how he had felt, what it meant to him to hear her say this. He reached his hand to cup to her face, to brush his thumb along her soft skin. Her eyes fluttered under the light touch, and she leaned into his hand. Then he bowed down, lightly touching his lips to the corner of her mouth for an almost chaste kiss, though he did not draw away. Instead he waited for her to turn her face towards him. The wait was not a long one, and the kiss she gave to him was not chaste; she brought her hands up to turn his head towards her, pressed her lips to his, then slid her arms around his neck as his came up around her back to pull her up against him. He drew in a sharp breath at the feel of her fingernails raking through his hair, at the invitation of a deeper kiss still by parting her lips, nipping his lower lip a little in her eagerness as she covered his mouth with her own.

"Sorry," she breathed between kisses.

"Please don't be," he murmured. 

After all, he had been wanting to kiss her, too.

His hands slipped down over her backside, and she made a sound that told him that she might have still felt a little desperate, though in a different way. "Maybe," she said. 

"Maybe what?" he asked, drawing back to meet her eyes again. She looked gorgeous, her cheeks pink, her lips full from their kissing, her eyes shining and determined.

"Maybe I wanted more than to kiss you," she admitted.

"I was hoping you might've," he said. 


	6. Epilogue

The glare that Mark got upon entering the office that morning in mid-July suggested to him that the news of his new relationship had finally, somehow, got out. Particularly as the person doing the glaring was a woman who had hoped to snag him for herself.

"Hello, Natasha," Mark had said pleasantly. "Have you seen Rebecca this morning?"

She didn't say anything at all, just turned on her heel and marched away.

"I suppose not," he murmured to himself, continuing on to his own office.

When he got to his office, Mark found not Rebecca, but Giles, and he wore a smile that threatened to overtake his whole face. "And you never said a word!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on," he said. "You don't need to be coy with me. Dating a star on the telly, and you never said a word!"

What Mark had feared had come to pass. "Where did you hear that?"

"It's in the rags," he said, waggling his brows. "You know, the tabloids. _The Daily Mail_."

"Why would I say anything?" Mark said. "It's nobody else's business."

"So it's _true_!" Giles said. "You _are_ dating that Bridget bird!"

Mark pursed his lips.

"Giles Benwick, stop haranguing the poor man. He's had a rough day."

It was Rebecca, and she looked stern. Giles immediately looked cowed. "Sorry, sorry," he said, backing towards the door. "It's just… a bit of excitement for the day, isn't it?"

"Go on," Rebecca said sternly. For someone probably fifteen years younger and a hundred pounds lighter than Giles, she was great at bossing him around. It was one of the reasons she made for a great PA.

Once Giles had closed the door behind him, Rebecca said, "I saw the papers. I'm sorry."

"I haven't," Mark said. "How bad is it?"

"Actually, it's not bad at all," she said, and she didn't sound like she was sugar-coating it at all. "I just know how much you hate your personal life out on display."

"I don't suppose you have—"

"I found it online," she said, anticipating his request. She dug into her bag, then drew out a tablet, on which she had previously viewed it.

He winced, then took it to review the item. It featured a photo of himself and Bridget, sharing a parting kiss on the front stoop of her building as he'd left the previous Saturday morning; he knew it had been Saturday because in the picture she was wearing her mackintosh… and very little beneath that, though he only knew that because he had watched her don it. The text beneath spoke of "a new beau for the Smooth Guidess… our research indicates he's none other than Mark Darcy, the noted human rights lawyer who sprung her from a Thai prison this past spring. Good for you, Bridge! We understand he was one of _Tatler_ 's—" He lowered it out of his sight, not caring to read on. 

"There are worse things to be in the papers for," she offered with a smile. 

A small smile found the corner of his mouth. "Always looking for the bright side," he said. "Thanks." He sighed, though he was grateful that the paper had not in fact speculated about what she was wearing beneath her coat. "I'll just set down my case then go get those files from Horatio."

"You don't want me to…?" she began, but trailed off.

"I'll get it," he said. "I can't hide in my office all day."

Shortly afterwards he wondered if he shouldn't have taken her up on her offer. The moment he walked into Horatio's office, Mark noticed the man wore an almost feral grin. "She's a lovely girl," he said, by way of greeting. Mark would have expected Horatio to be above all of this sort of thing, but nothing surprised him anymore, at least not much. Horatio added, "I can't help wondering about that overcoat, though. Bit strange on a summer day, eh?"

Mark willed his face not to burn red hot, but was mostly unsuccessful.

"I'm here for that case file," Mark said.

"No comment. I see how it is," Horatio said. He turned, got the file that Mark had requested. "In all seriousness, I'm pleased for you. She _is_ lovely but I can tell from her television programme that she's a decent, friendly girl." The fact that Horatio had watched Bridget and Daniel's show surprised Mark almost as much as Horatio's awareness of the tabloids. "I know you don't like to talk about your ex-wife, but… well. You deserve something better, after that."

This spot of unexpected humanity took him slightly by surprise, and Mark's only response was to thank Horatio, collect the file from him, and say goodbye.

Fortunately, not a single person that he passed on his return to his own office spoke with him, merely a nod or a smile, or both. He was torn between being mortified and being immensely pleased. When he returned to his office, Rebecca was on the phone. 

"No, I'm sorry, he is not available," she said, her gaze flicking upward to look at him. "I will pass on your request, but I can tell you right now he, in all likelihood, won't be interested. Thank you." She put the phone down. "That was _The Independent_. They wanted to speak to you about today's picture."

"As if there weren't real news about which to report," Mark said, then furrowed his brow. "Wait, didn't they run the picture in the first place?"

"No, that was _The Daily Mail_."

"Oh, right," he said. 

Rebecca chuckled. "How can you confuse the two?"

He shrugged. "I don't read either of them."

She looked at him, then shook her head with a small smile. "I think you are the only one in chambers who doesn't, to be honest," she said. "We PAs do talk amongst ourselves."

He had been so distracted and discombobulated by the events of the morning that he apparently had missed his mobile going off, evidenced by the return of Giles with his broad, broad grin, with Bridget in tow. She was wearing a scarf over her head and a pair of large sunglasses, looking ridiculously conspicuous. Only then did his hand reach for his mobile, only then did he see the string of missed calls and messages from her.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't hear it ring."

"You heard, then?" she asked. She slipped the scarf down, took off the sunglasses, revealing a worried crease between her eyes as she glanced from Rebecca to Giles. He was confused about her reaction. Surely the press thrusting their new relationship into the limelight was not that much of a problem for her.

"Obviously."

Her mouth turned down in a slight frown. "Can we talk in private?"

"Of course," he said, then led her back into his actual working area, closing the door behind them.

She turned to face him. "I know how furious you must be about this," she said solemnly. "I'm so, so sorry. I never thought in a million years…" She trailed off. "I would understand if you… you know."

"I'm afraid that I don't know," he said.

"I know how private you are," she said. "This might be more than you bargained for."

And then he did understand. He regarded her for a moment. "So you thought I would really _chuck_ you for this," he said, his voice gentle, "for something totally outside of your control?" She didn't answer, only looked sheepish. "What makes you think I'm furious? Do I look furious?"

She pursed her lips briefly then said, "You could be. I can't always tell."

He smiled a little. In some ways it felt like they had known each other for a long time, but in many ways they were still figuring each other out. "If I were," he said, then added hastily, "and I'm _not_ —but if I were, I wouldn't be angry with you."

"But I—"

He stopped her from talking by pressing his forefinger lightly over her lips. "It was a public location, and you are something of a public figure," he said softly. "If it were a shot of you and me through your flat window, I'd be out for blood."

"Really?" she said, slightly muffled. He drew his hand back. "I'm a public figure?" She had gone from nervous to pleased. "Really?"

He chuckled, then took her in his arms. The first kiss, every subsequent kiss… each time held its own special thrill for him. "Really," he murmured, then planted a quick peck on her lips before releasing her. "Are you all right, though? I mean, you're not being harassed, are you?"

She shook her head. "Though I'm sure it's coming," she said. She then offered a lopsided smile. "Frankly, it'll be a change of pace from being accused of hiding a renewed relationship with Daniel. Oh, God, if they ever learnt of your history with Daniel… they’d have a field day."

He couldn't help but chuckle again; he'd never tell, and doubt Daniel would, either. "Come on," he said. "Come and meet Rebecca and Giles. It is your first visit to chambers, after all."

They exited the inner office to find Giles and Rebecca as if they had suddenly been caught trying to listen in on the conversation. "Everything okay?" asked Rebecca, her cheeks tinting pink.

"It's fine," Mark said. "Didn't get to properly introduce you before. Bridget, this is my PA, Rebecca Gillies, and this is one of my partners in chambers, Giles Benwick."

Rebecca came around her desk, held out her hand for a polite shake. "We've spoken on the phone before," she said. "So nice to meet you at last."

Bridget surprised everyone, especially Rebecca, by giving her a big hug, instead. "You made my getting out of Thai prison and coming home so much easier," Bridget said. "Thank you for that."

"You're, er, welcome," she said, her skin now going scarlet; when Bridget drew back, Rebecca fixed her face with a smile.

"So you're the reason Darcy's got a smile on his face these days," Giles said, holding out his own hand towards Bridget. "Aces. Simply aces."

Bridget giggled, then accepted this handshake. Mark thought Giles looked a touch disappointed that he, too, did not get a hug. "A pleasure," she said with a bright smile. "Mark speaks so highly of his partners in chambers." Mark did not show any indication that he was fighting off laughter, thinking of how patiently she had listened to him blow off steam about his frustrations. He noticed that she did not mention Jeremy, which was probably to spare him a further inquisition from Giles.

"Shall I take you around to meet the others?" Mark said, extending his elbow towards her.

She answered by taking his elbow.

"So Rebecca seems really lovely," she said as they went down the corridor. "There's not a… I mean, she's not a…"

He had a feeling he knew what she was trying to ask. "No," he said without hesitation. "There has never been, isn't, nor will there ever be anything between us."

"Because you're her boss?"

"Because she prefers women," he said quietly, considering again his PA's blush when Bridget had hugged her. "And she's young enough to be my daughter."

She laughed, though it was a bit uneasy.

"Okay, step-daughter," he added. "But it still stands. And anyway… I prefer blondes."

At this she chuckled abruptly, then stopped walking, got up on her toes, and gave him a kiss.

"We're in the middle of chambers," he murmured.

"Not the weirdest place I've been seen kissing you," she murmured back, "and at least this time I have my knickers on."

It was then his turn to blush, his shirt collar suddenly uncomfortably tight.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Related links**
> 
>   * [What are my rights if I am arrested? (UK)](http://findlaw.co.uk/law/criminal/your_rights/7975.html)
>   * [Animals' Symbolism In Decoration, Decorative Arts, Chinese Beliefs, and Feng Shui](http://www.nationsonline.org/oneworld/Chinese_Customs/animals_symbolism.htm)—while it does not correlate strictly with Thai animal symbolism, I figure that it wouldn't matter to the people making them for tourists whether or not it was correct.
>   * [Thai names,](https://www.cpp.edu/~pronunciation/thai.html) and how to pronounce them.
>   * [The hierarchy of the Thai police](http://www.hierarchystructure.com/thailand-police-hierarchy/).
>   * [Yaksha](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yaksha), Caretakers of hidden treasures: " _Yaksha_ (Sanskrit _yakṣa_ , Pali _yakkha_ ) is the name of a broad class of nature-spirits, usually benevolent, who are caretakers of the natural **treasures hidden** in the earth and tree roots. … The feminine form of the word is _yakṣī_ or Yakshini ( _yakṣiṇī_ )." … "In Indian art… Female _yakṣas_ , known as _yakṣiṇīs_ , are portrayed as beautiful young women with happy round faces and full breasts and hips."
>   * [_Sa wat dee_](http://www.thai-language.com/id/196817) is "a polite greeting or farewell used when meeting or parting."
> 



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